The Deputy

I’d expected the Jordan home to stink as bad as the inside of Luke’s truck or strange like Grandma Jordan’s add-on rooms, but the house had an inoffensive pine odor which almost masked a faint cigarette smell. I took out a Winston and lit it. A few empty Budweiser cans here and there, ashtrays not too full but not quite clean either. Mismatched furniture. The sofa and most of the chairs were pointed at a giant fifty-inch television. CDs in a half-assed pile by the stereo. Dixie Chicks, Brooks & Dunn, more country stuff. A Def Leppard CD seeming slightly out of place.

The place looked like some kind of redneck fraternity house.

I searched four bedrooms and two bathrooms and a den before ending up in the kitchen. Nobody home, and I didn’t see anything that screamed proof of conspiracy.

This kitchen was bigger and better than the little thing they’d slapped together for Grandma, but there were dirty dishes in the sink and more empty beer cans on the counter. I opened the refrigerator and eyed one of the several cold Budweisers with lust. Bad idea. A beer might soothe my multiple aches and bruises, but it would probably knock me on my ass too. I searched for an energy drink without luck. A jar of dill pickles caught my eye. I opened it and took two. Crunchy. There was something in a Tupperware bowl that might have been meatloaf, but I decided not to risk it.

Not even cola, nothing with caffeine or sugar. Hell.

I closed the refrigerator and took a glass from the cabinet, filled it in the sink. While I gulped water I noticed something hanging on the wall, a chunk of wood carved in the shape of a key. A row of small metal hooks lined the key for the purpose of hanging car and house keys. All the hooks were empty except for one. I took the key down and had to smile at the key chain.

The words Harley Davidson against an American flag.

I left through the kitchen door and found the Jordans’ detached garage. I was worried it might be padlocked, but it wasn’t and I threw the doors wide. I didn’t bother looking for a light switch. The Harley was close enough to the front of the garage to see the chrome gleam in the moonlight. I put up the kickstand and walked it out. Heavy and solid.

The bike looked exactly the same as it did that day Jason pounded Mark Foster at the Tastee-Freeze. I straddled it, a dopey grin spreading across my bruised face. I felt like I could ride this thing to the moon. It felt big. I put the key in and turned. The Harley thundered to life beneath me. I heard Lucifer barking his ass off in the back yard. Screw you, dog.

I gassed it down the driveway and felt like I’d been strapped to a fat rocket. The wind in my hair. I felt like a legend, the big rumble between my legs like I was riding an earthquake. I opened it up wide, tear-assing back south on the Six. I made a promise to myself to get one of these babies.

Thanks, Jason.

I made it back to Coyote Crossing fast and reluctantly slowed the Harley coming down Main Street. I tried to imagine myself back in high school in a cool leather jacket and a pair of shades, all the girls checking out just how fucking cool I looked. I held that thought a second before the grin melted from my face. I wasn’t in high school anymore, and there were no girls looking at me.

Still, the wind felt mighty good.

The pickup truck that roared out of the alley from my right missed clipping the motorcycle’s back tire by two inches. I flinched, gassed it, hopped the Harley up onto the sidewalk as the pickup swerved back at me and pulled along side. I tried to look over and see who it was, but I suddenly had to dodge a mailbox and a newspaper machine. I wobbled on the bike, swerved back onto the street, ten feet in front of the truck. It came up behind me fast, and I cranked the accelerator and took off.

I glanced at the pickup in the mirror. A black Ford, fairly new. I tried to remember if any of the Jordan brothers had a truck like that, but I didn’t think so. I opened up the Harley for all she was worth and put some distance between me and the pickup. I was really flying now and got a little scared. All I had to do was hit a stray speck of dust at this speed, and I’d splatter myself all over the road.

I passed the Mona Lisa Motel and kept going. The speedometer said I was hauling ass at 110 mph. I glanced at the speedometer again to make sure, waited for a cartoon skull and crossbones to roll across.

I slowed a little, killed the lights. I came upon a stand of trees left of the road, a dozen or so scraggly scrub oaks. I pulled into the tall grass, parked behind the trunk of the biggest oak. Five seconds later the pickup flew by and did-n’t slow. I counted to twenty slowly then got back on the road after them.

A minute later the old drive-in theater came into view. There was a big orange bonfire and about a dozen people milling around. The black pickup pulled in, circled the crowd once slowly then hit the road again and kept going. I wondered how long they’d drive before they gave up and came back.

Then I remembered Wayne telling me about the vagrants and a fire hazard. I rode the bike in slowly to have a look. I got within fifty feet of the people and stopped, put the kickstand down and climbed off. The vagrants were all Mexican, and I even saw my smoking buddy from the firehouse. They all stood to face me, and a couple carried makeshift weapons. The closest was a burly guy with a full beard. He carried a three-foot length of pipe.

I wondered if pulling my revolver would help or make matters worse. I decided to leave it holstered. They were clearly waiting for me to do something. I was waiting for me to do something too, but hell if I knew what.

Then my smoking buddy stepped forward. He had a younger guy in tow, a teenager with a thin pretend moustache and a shaved head. My smoking buddy mumbled Spanish to the kid.

“He says we are out of town,” the kid said. “Like you wanted.”

I didn’t know if the drive-in was officially in town or not, but it was good enough for me. “I’m not here to make trouble. Just be careful with the fire.”

The kid translated to smoking buddy who nodded and talked Spanish at the rest of the crowd. The tension seemed to sigh out of them and they went back to the fire, the level of conversation rising again. Smoking buddy motioned for me and the kid to sit with him at one of the half-rotted picnic tables near the concession stand. I nodded and followed along, sat down.

“Tell him I won’t bother you people,” I said to the kid. “But others will come along sooner or later. You can’t stay around here too long.”

He translated, and my smoking buddy nodded, scratched his moustache. The talk coming back the other direction lasted a minute.

“We are far away from where we were supposed to be dropped off,” the kid said. “We could call someone to come get us. We have a number. Enrique has a cell phone, but it doesn’t work.”

I shook my head and sighed. “We’ve never had cell reception around here, and all the phones in town are dead.”

The kid translated, and the other guy frowned and talked again.

The kid said, “We worry. The men can walk. We have endured worse hardships.” He gestured toward the concession stand. “But there are women and children.”

Women and children. Perfect. I stood, dusted myself off and headed for the concession stand, my new pals following. I opened the door, pushed my way inside. A dozen women sat against the wall. More than half held babies or toddlers in their laps. As a group they looked bedraggled, probably dehydrated and hungry.

Hell. What could I do with these people? What could anybody do? They don’t teach you this kind of thing at the academy. They threw a lot of civil codes and procedures at me, all in one ear and out the other. But nobody had taught me a damn thing about saving lost souls. You can’t arrest starvation or desperation. What these people must’ve been through, well, I couldn’t imagine. And I felt sorry for them, but I also wanted them to go away.

The cramped snack stand stank of sweat and diapers. I moved near the window for a breath of air, wracked my brain what I could do for these people, knowing damn well not a thing.

I leaned on the windowsill, tried to remember what this place was like back when they were showing movies. I loved the smell of popcorn. A chilidog and a Coke. Must’ve been nice. Mom and Dad had told me they’d brought me when I was two or three, put me in the back seat with a blanket. There would usually be a double feature, something for the kids at first, and then I’d drift off and the second movie would be for the adults. I didn’t remember, but I bet it was fun.

I looked up just in time to see the headlights swing into the Drive-in entrance. It was a black pickup truck. Jason’s Harley was parked in plain sight, no way they’d miss it.

“Son of a—oh, come on,” I muttered.

“Some sort of problem, señor?” the kid asked.

“That pickup truck means trouble.”

“For us?” “For me,” I said. “Listen. Get out there and tell them I’m gone. Say some other police car came to pick me up, and I left the motorcycle here. Can you do that?”

“Si, señor.”

“Best get everyone out of here.” I motioned to the women and children. “Maybe they’ll come in for me or maybe not, but it could get ugly.” I let my hand rest on the revolver.

He nodded and translated. The kid and my smoking buddy herded the rest from the concession stand. I backed into the shadows, watched through the window. The truck parked three feet from the Harley Davidson. Damn.

One man got out of the driver’s side, another from the passenger side. Both held shotguns. Damn. Damn. Damn.

I pulled my revolver, watched and waited.

The guy who’d been in the driver’s seat looked only vaguely familiar, a broad-shouldered cowboy with messy brown hair and a square jaw, maybe a couple years older than me. I recognized the passenger immediately.

Blake Harper was a rat-faced string-bean, with hunched shoulders and a bony chest. His greasy hair fell into his eyes and down past the collar of his plaid shirt. Patchy Elvis sideburns. He looked so thin and brittle and bony, I thought one good punch would knock him into a thousand pieces.

Blake had been Luke Jordan’s toady little kiss-ass sidekick in high school. Back then, he’d been too cowardly to try anything too ambitious himself, mostly he just stood in the background and laughed at Luke’s stupid jokes while Luke pounded some freshman or snapped girls’ bra straps. Upon returning home, I’d heard Blake had moved up the food chain half a notch, ripping off cars stranded on the Interstate and stealing mail from people’s boxes. All of it rumors and nothing ever proved. Finally, Blake tied a chain to an ATM machine, tied the other end to his pickup and tried to take off. A security camera caught the whole thing, and he ended up serving a couple years.

He got out of prison and returned to Coyote Crossing to resume toadying duties with the Jordans. Apparently, they had the whole roster of douche bags out after my ass.

A group of five Mexicans approached Blake and his pal, including the Mexican holding the length of pipe. Blake lifted his shotgun, and the Mexicans backed off. They traded words, but I couldn’t hear. The Mexicans finally moved off toward the bonfire, and I saw Blake and his buddy put their heads together to confer. They pointed, nodded, and Blake’s pal headed for the big Drive-in screen.

Blake came straight at me.

I backed up to the service counter, swung myself over, keeping my eyes on the window the whole time, Blake still coming with the shotgun in his hands, not in much of a hurry. I was aware of the doorway to the kitchen behind me, and I was banking there was a back way out.

I let the darkness of the kitchen swallow me as I eased back, stopping when my butt hit something solid, some kind of counter or stove maybe. I kept the door and window in view, still watching Blake’s steady progress. He drifted out of sight as he got close, and I braced myself for the front door to open, a tight grip on my revolver.

At first, I thought maybe Blake had changed his mind. I waited, and nothing happened.

Then the door slowly creaked open. Blake wasn’t going to blunder in. He was being careful, knew I might be in here. I only wanted him to go away.

The shotgun barrel came in first, then his hand and one of his legs.

I backed around behind the stove, made myself small.

Blake was trying to keep quiet, but his boots scraped against the grit on the floor. He poked the shotgun into every corner, searching. I held my breath. I didn’t have any doubt Blake was coming to splatter me with buckshot. Maybe I should jump up quick and shoot first, but I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to shoot anyone. I just wanted this long night to end. And anyway, Blake’s pal was out there someplace with another shotgun and would probably come running. If I shot at Blake and missed, it’d be two against one.

Just go away, you asshole.

He came around the counter, and I heard him poking into cabinets. A second later he was right there, his silhouette in the kitchen doorway, standing there like the perfect target.

And I thought about it. I really did. It would be so easy to point the revolver and squeeze the trigger two or three times.

Blake peered into the darkness, hunched forward trying to see. He reached along the wall, looking for the light switch. When he found it, he flipped it up and down a half-dozen times, but there wasn’t any power. He muttered something under his breath I didn’t catch and took a step into the kitchen.

I pressed myself back into the dark corner between the wall and the cold steel oven. A trickle of sweat made an itch down the center of my back. More sweat in my eyes. My heart beat like some kind of whumping bass drum.

Blake’s head turned slowly one way, and then the other.

And then he backed out.

Keep going, man. Walk away.

I heard the front door open and close again. I let out a ragged breath, put a hand on the oven next to me to push myself up, my knees all watery.

I saw the outline of a back door across the kitchen and went for it. I tripped on something and my hand went out. I hit a stack of pots and pans and they clattered and banged on the floor like the end of the world.

“Shit!”

I ran for the back door but didn’t make it. The room flashed and thundered, buckshot pellets scorching the pots and pans next to me. Blake stood half in the kitchen doorway, firing blind at the sound. I spun quick, shot twice, and he ducked back.

Blake screamed, “Harris!”

I knew I needed to get out before Harris arrived, but I kept low when Blake swung the shotgun into the kitchen again and blasted buckshot over my head. I fired again just for the noise to make him back off, and tried to work the rusted slide bolt on the back door. I heard him pump another shell and hit the floor again just before he blasted. I shot at his feet, and he backed off again.

“Harris!” Blake screamed. “Goddamn it, I got him trapped in the snack bar. Get your ass over here.”

“You’re under arrest, Blake.” It was worth a try.

“Fuck you, Toby.” He stuck the shotgun around the corner and shot the ceiling.

I holstered the revolver and pulled Karl’s Glock. I aimed a foot left of the kitchen door where I imagined Blake stood ready to rush in and cut loose on me with the shotgun. I squeezed the trigger four times, chewed up the wall. The smoke hung thick from all the gunfire. I heard a grunt and a thud out in the front area of the concession stand.

I waited a second, kept the automatic aimed at the doorway. I heard a muffled groan. Good. Blake got his. Lie there and bleed, you son of a bitch.

I bashed the slide bolt open with the heel of my hand, and it finally came loose. I kicked the door hard, and it flew wide. I rushed out, the Glock leading the way.

The back of the concession stand: an old dumpster, a rusted junk car. Crappy picnic tables.

The first blast peppered the wall next to me. I dove for the ground. I saw the flash from the second blast. I felt a sting along my left leg and grunted.

Harris.

I looked up to see him breaking the breach on his double-barrel shotgun, thumbing in new shells. I shot at him and the slug tunked the dumpster. Harris ducked.

I got to my feet, ran and dove behind the junk car. I raised up just enough to look over the hood. I waited for his head to pop out for a look, so I could blast it off. He stayed put.

“Harris!” I called. “Harris, come out with your hands up. Throw out the gun, and you don’t have to end up like Blake.”

Maybe that would shake him up.

He didn’t say anything and didn’t show his face. I was-n’t eager to show mine either. I crouch-walked around the other side of the car toward the dumpster. I wondered if I was being as quiet as I hoped. I knew he was crouched on the other side of the dumpster. Hopefully I’d catch him looking in the wrong direction. I tried my best not to step on dry twigs or broken glass or anything else that might make a noise. The distant bonfire and the fading moonlight didn’t do a whole lot to help me see where I was putting each step.

I finally nosed around the corner of the dumpster and saw him squatting there, clutching the shotgun and keeping watch toward the rusted out car. I eased toward him, leveled the automatic. One more step, and another. A little closer.

“Don’t move, man.”

He tensed then said, “Shit.”

“I’m going to come get the shotgun. If you move, I’ll blast you to hell. You understand?”

“Yeah, I understand,” he said.

I moved in slowly, took the shotgun out of his hands and backed away. I flung it behind me out of reach. I did-n’t have any cuffs and wasn’t exactly sure what to do with him. But I did have some questions.

“How many you got out for me tonight? I know the Jordan boys are prowling around someplace.”

“Hey, fuck you, Deputy,” Harris said. “How ’bout we knock off the chit-chat and you just take me to jail.”

“Jail’s full,” I told him. “Maybe we’ll settle things here.”

“Bullshit.”

Yeah, it was bullshit, but shitbag Harris didn’t need to know that. And there was something about a guy squirting buckshot at you that got the heart pumping. If he so much as twitched an eyelash, I Goddamn would blow his head off.

“Are you in on smuggling the Mexicans?” I asked. “Or are you just a hired goon for the special occasion of hunting down Deputy Sawyer?”

“You’re so stupid. Take me off to the slammer, man. I’m not even going to need my one phone call. I’ll be pissing on your grave in an hour.”

I raised the pistol to smack Harris in the back of the head when the back door of the concession stand swung open.

Blake stumbled out, one shoulder soaked with blood. He barley held the shotgun with one hand, blasted it straight over our heads, the buckshot not even coming close. It was enough to distract me, and Harris sprang, one hand going to my throat, the other to my pistol. We tumbled to the ground together rolling in the dust, raising a cloud. Each of us kicked and twisted trying to get some kind of advantage.

The gun ended up between us, and we rolled and he ended on top and I pulled the trigger. The Glock barked, and Harris’s eyes went wide, his mouth falling open, saliva dripping. He strained to say something, but only managed to heave out this sad croak.

“Here’s one for the road,” I said.

I squeezed the trigger again, and he convulsed on top of me. His eyes closed, and I pushed him off. I got to my knees and saw Blake stumbling for me. He was trying to swing up the shotgun into his other hand, so he could pump in another shell, but the twelve gauge just dangled from his grip. He finally managed to pump in a shell. I brought up the pistol, and we faced each other. He looked like he could barely stand, might fall over any minute. He’d lost a lot of blood, and his face looked like chalk.

“Drop it, man,” I warned. “You’re all used up.”

A yellow smile spread across his face. “Toby Sawyer, you dumb half-assed musician pinhead bastard. You’re small time … you’re nothing. You’re walking around dead with a tin star on your chest.”

“I’ll last longer than you.”

He swallowed. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

And then the Mexicans were there. I don’t know how long they’d been silently moving up to encircle us, but they closed in, made a ring around us, men in front, the dim faces of women beyond. Even in the darkness I could feel them, the thick mass of humanity all bearing down like a single thing with one mind focused on Blake.

He swung the shotgun in a circle, stumbled. Not one of the Mexicans flinched. Didn’t even blink. Blake shook the scatter gun at them. “You get back, you wetback fuckers.”

“Who you going to shoot, Blake? They’ll be on you before you can pump in another one.”

“Maybe I’ll save the last shot for you,” Blake said. “That’d be some satisfaction anyway.”

“Big mistake. I can take you into custody, get you patched up. Or you can take your chance with these folks.”

“Listen at you,” Blake said. “Talking like a for real law man. Well, you can shove your protective custody straight up your ass, you ass … hole …” His eyes rolled up, and he toppled forward, his face bouncing off the hard-packed dirt.

We gathered around, watched to see if he’d get back up. He didn’t. I thought he might have kicked it, so I knelt, put a hand on his chest, felt a heartbeat. He was breathing.

“Can you guys try to patch him up?” I asked. “Just until I can send somebody back for him. There’s probably some towels or something in the concession stand. Just staunch the bleeding if you can.”

The kid and Enrique looked at each other, then back at me.

“This man.” The kid gestured to Blake. “He try to kill you.”

“Yeah.”

“Leave him. He will bleed to death. Rats and buzzards need food also. It is justice.” I shook my head. “That would suit me. I’ll admit it.

But I can’t do it that way. Truth is I think I’d get more satisfaction seeing him hauled back to prison.”

They jabbered at each other some more, and the kid said, “We understand. We are not doctors, but we will do what we can.”

I knelt next to Blake and took his wallet from his back pocket. He had sixty-two bucks, and I handed it to the kid. “I don’t know how far that’ll go, but maybe you can feed everyone. I went back into Blake’s wallet and found a Visa card. What the hell. I handed it over.

“I don’t normally condone this sort of thing, but I suppose Blake owes us.”

“We are grateful,” the kid said, “but we still have no way to contact our people.”

I thought about that a moment then said, “Follow me.”

I went back to Jason’s motorcycle and hopped on, I motioned for the kid to get behind me. He looked at Enrique who nodded, and the kid got behind me, put his arms around my waist. He kept fidgeting.

“Stay still.”

“Sorry.”

“I’ll take you to a phone, okay? After that, you’re on your own.”

He told his friends what he was doing, and they all wished him God speed or whatever. I couldn’t translate it, but there were a lot of worried looks on brown faces.

I cranked the bike, and we headed back to town.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I parked the Harley Davidson in front of the police station and climbed off.

“Take this bike down Highway Six,” I told the kid. “There’s a payphone at the Texaco station. They’re not on the same grid we are, so it should be okay. You’ll need to dump the bike as soon as possible. Anyway, call your people, get out of here soon as you can, because in a while this place is going to be crawling with the law. You understand?”

He nodded and offered his hand. We shook.

“Thank you.” He revved the bike and shot away down Main Street. I listened awhile until I couldn’t hear the Harley rumble anymore.

I stood there in the last bit of dark. I didn’t think I’d ever get used to the sudden quiet. Coyote Crossing could seem like a ghost town in an eye blink. Even in the middle of the day. I’d seen it. Two or three people on the street walk inside, no cars. Not a sound, not even a dog barking. And you could stand there and look in every direction and not see a sign of life nor a hint of movement, like even the breeze had died and gone to hell. That’s how it seemed now. Quiet and strange, the thunder of the gunshots and the roar of the motorcycle already fading from my ears. I could almost imagine it had all been a long, bad dream. Quiet.

It didn’t last long.

I heard the voices coming down the side street, two of them. They weren’t talking so loud, but the voices carried. It’s like that at night. Voices will carry a long way, echo off the buildings. I didn’t go for my guns. I knew the voices.

Roy and his pal Howard turned on to Main and ambled in my direction. They were having some kind of lazy conversation about fishing and the new resort over to Lake Skiatook and whether or not they’d be able to borrow a boat from somebody Howard knew. I’d heard about the new resort too, but I didn’t know anybody with a boat.

The conversation cut off suddenly as Roy passed his Peterbilt parked in front of the station. If I’d been one of those nasty kind of guys, a mean son of a bitch at heart, I’d have started laughing. The look on Roy’s face. Like his heart was breaking into little pieces. He stood in front of his battered truck, mouth hanging open, eyes growing bigger by the second. His face convulsed, like maybe he couldn’t decide to sob or scream.

“What. The. Hell.” Roy stepped forward, put a tentative hand on the hood. Almost like he was feeling for a pulse.

I stepped out of the shadow near the station door. “Sorry, Roy. We had some trouble earlier.”

“Some trouble? That’s my Goddamn rig! What the hell happened?”

“Settle down, Roy.”

He wasn’t so drunk anymore and gave me a look like he didn’t want some snotty kid with a badge getting all tough cop. I met his gaze, and he took it. He wasn’t happy, but he took it. I was the law. Whatever hardass thing he wanted to say, he kept it inside his mouth.

“Don’t worry about your rig. We’ll get it reported, and your insurance will handle it.” I didn’t know if that was true, and I sure as hell didn’t know what kind of insurance Roy had or if they’d pay a dime. But I said it all like I meant it. And Roy didn’t need to know quite yet I was the one behind the wheel of his truck when it plowed through the motel.

“Where you gents going?” I asked.

“We figure Wayne’ll open up for breakfast soon,” Roy said. “I need something on my stomach.” He looked at his truck again. “Jesus.”

“Biscuits and gravy.” Howard’s contribution to the conversation.

“You been home yet?” I didn’t figure I could push Roy too far. He might wonder what Molly was doing with my son in his house. I didn’t want to have to explain that.

“Not yet,” Roy said. “We wanted food first.”

“Do me a favor and go back to Howard’s after breakfast. I need to make sure Molly feels safe before you go home.”

Roy frowned. “It’s my house, Sawyer.” “Liability, Roy. I need to cover my ass.”

“I don’t take your meaning.”

“I need her to tell me she doesn’t feel threatened. It’s routine.” Sure.

He shrugged. “Fine. I just want some bacon.” He looked at the Peterbilt again. “I can’t believe it. I mean … Jesus Christ.”

“It’ll be okay, Roy.”

And I hoped it would be. It was hard to care about Roy’s rig with everything that had happened. I’d killed and almost been killed. My life was turning upside down in a single night. But Roy’s problems were big to Roy. Everybody’s own problems were the biggest.

I watched Roy and Howard waddle toward Skeeter’s. I was out of cigarettes.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I walked inside the station. It was dark except for the sad, yellow light of the desk lamp. Karl snored in his cell. “Cowboy,” the hellcat whispered. “Hey, cowboy.” “What is it?” I didn’t whisper back, but I kept my voice

low. “Your cop lady friend was looking for you. I think you pissed her off. Eh?”

“Well she can come back and arrest me if she wants to.” I flopped into the chair behind the desk. “I’ll be right here.” “You look like shit,” she said. “I mean even worse than before.” “Thanks. I like you too.” “What’s holding you together?” “Cigarettes and energy drinks.”

“Some job, eh? You get beat up, wreck your car. They pay you for this?”

“Not very much.”

She grabbed two of the cell bars, pulled her face right up against them. “Then get me out of here. Okay? Get me out, and I can get us money. Lots of money, cowboy. More than enough. It goes a long way in Mexico.”

“Knock it off.”

“Me and you in Cozumel, cowboy,” insisted the hellcat. “Don’t you know the possibilities? Can’t you taste it?”

“Your sales pitch comes off desperate.”

“Damn you to hell.” She spat at me. It landed way short.

“You wanted to shoot me in the belly an hour ago.”

“I don’t want to go to prison,” she said.

“That’s why it’s prison.”

“Fuck you!” She erupted in a string of Spanish cursing I was glad I didn’t understand.

I waited it out. She trailed off and went quiet again. She slid down into a sitting position, rested her head against the bars.

I sat at the desk. The hellcat pouted. Karl snored. It went on like that a few minutes.

Amanda came into the station house, walked straight for me, leaned in, slapping her hand on the desk. She put her nose an inch from mine. “Did you not understand when I said to stay here, you goddamn retard?”

“Take it easy, Amanda.” I met her gaze. Yesterday, I would have flinched. Not today. I’d been through too much. Or maybe I was just too tired.

“Don’t tell me to take it easy, kid. What did you think you were doing?”

“Somebody had to go look for the chief.”

“And did you find him?”

“No. But somebody burned down his house.”

That made her pause a second. “What the hell for?”

“Maybe to fry me. I was inside at the time.”

“Maybe they thought you were Krueger,” she said. “Where do you think he might be?”

I sighed. “Amanda, I think the chief is dead. He’d of checked in or radioed by now.”

She nibbled her lower lip, thinking about it. “Maybe.”

“And the Jordan brothers are out there right now, looking to do me some bad.”

“In that case we’ll both stay put this time,” she said. “The state police will be here soon, and we’ll mop up this mess from there. Jesus, it’s turning into a long night.”

Tell me about it.

“I’m making some coffee.” She headed for the back room where the Mr. Coffee perched on top of the safe.

I didn’t know if my stomach could stand any coffee. It was still burbling from the energy drinks. And the station house coffee was this bitter black acid that could melt the paint off the side of a barn. Maybe I needed some food. I wondered if Amanda would let me scoot down to Skeeter’s for pancakes and bacon with Roy and Howard. Probably not.

I heard the faucet come on in the back room, water splashing into the coffee pot.

This one time I heard a radio psychologist remark how smells are the strongest triggers for memory, more than the other senses. And I guess that’s maybe so. The smell of charcoal reminds me of my father every time, how we’d camp out in the National Park and do hamburgers or whatever. I could be smack in the middle of New York City and smell charcoal and think of a campfire in the woods with my old man. Cough drops made me think of Mother.

But for Doris it was sounds more than smells, I think. I heard Amanda in the back room splashing in the sink, and the sound sent me right back to the trailer. I’d be sleeping in the bedroom, and I could hear Doris through the thin walls making coffee or doing dishes.

I wondered if she was driving straight through to Houston, or if she’d stop someplace, a little roach-ridden motel on the side of the highway. I didn’t like the thought of her ragging herself out, driving all night, nodding off at the wheel. I hoped she’d call when she got to her sister’s. I did not hope she would come back, but I hoped she would call. And anyway, something would have to be done about the boy if I ended up in jail, or even if I had to go off looking for work. She’d need to fetch TJ maybe take him back to her sister’s.

Man, I hated the thought of going to Houston every time I wanted to see my son.

Amanda returned and took the chair opposite me. “It’s brewing.”

“Now what?”

“Now we wait.”

“You ever been married?” I asked her.

“No.”

“Lucky you.”

“I came close once,” she said. “We lived together first, and it didn’t work out.”

“What happened?”

She bit her thumb, shrugged. “We met during this triathlon in Tulsa. You know, run and swim and cycle. We had a lot in common. Sports and outdoor activity. Then when we moved in together things just got all domestic. We hardly did any of that stuff anymore. Just went to work, came home, sat around the apartment waiting to go to work again the next day. I don’t know why, but we both knew it wasn’t going to work.”

“Sounds like you parted amicably.”

“Yeah.” The silence stretched.

I said, “I’m going to need you on my side, need you to speak up for me, I mean.”

“It’ll all get sorted out,” she said.

“I killed a fellow deputy.” Billy’s dead face flashed through my mind. “And we’ve got another one locked up. I can’t lose my son, Amanda. I’m all he’s got.”

“They’ll investigate it. You tell the truth, and you get what you get,” she said. “That’s all you can do.”

“That don’t make me feel too much better.”

“I didn’t say it to make you feel better. I said it because that’s how it is. But if you told it to me right, you did everything in either self-defense or the line of duty. At least in the big picture. Some of the details might work against you.”

I thought about putting Roy’s rig through the Mona Lisa Motel. No, that wasn’t quite by the book. Some real professional cop with experience probably would’ve had it all handled by now, wrapped up neat and pretty. But I was the dumbass, part-time deputy, fumbling his way from frying pan to fire.

Sizzle.

“Anything like this ever happen to you before?” I asked her.

She shook her head. “My career hasn’t been so colorful. But I knew a guy who shot a thirteen-year-old kid once. It was dark, and the kid had a toy gun. He was finally cleared, but I don’t think the guy was ever the same. Last I heard he’d gone in with a private security firm.”

And least I hadn’t killed anyone who hadn’t been asking for it. Amanda shrugged. “Anyway, those State boys will be here soon and then we can—”

The cinder block shattered the window, flew through glass and the blinds and landed five feet from us. We both dove to the floor, and I saw Amanda pop back up a second later with her gun drawn. I drew mine too just to feel involved, but I stayed under the desk.

A rough voice from the street yelled, “Get your ass out here, Sawyer, and take your medicine.”

The voice sounded like Jason Jordan’s, but it could have been one of his brothers. They all had the same rough redneck bark.

“Who is that?” she asked.

“The Jordan Brothers.”

“All of them?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Maybe.”

“They want you.”

“I’m popular tonight.”

“You seem pretty glib about it.”

“I’m pretty tired. Being afraid has sort of worn off.”

She went up to the window, but stood off to the side in case another cinder block or worse came through. She still had the gun drawn, and I wondered if she was going to lean out and start shooting like in some old western. “Who’s that out there?” she shouted. Silence. Maybe they thought I was in here alone. Amanda tried again. “There’s a world of hurt heading

this way, boys. State Police. If I were you, I’d get home and clear the streets.” I grinned at her. “Why don’t you go out there and arrest them?” “Go to hell, Sawyer.” I laughed. “You here me out there?” she shouted again. “Clear

off.” “We don’t have no quarrel with you, Miss Amanda,” one of the Jordans yelled back. “Just send Sawyer out.” “You heard him, kid. Get out there.” It was her turn to grin at me. “They’re trying to divide us up.” “I know,” Amanda said. “They can’t afford any live witnesses, and they must know the phones are out.” “They’re probably the ones that done it,” I said. “Yeah.” “Send him out,” came the shout again. “For what he did to Luke.” “I didn’t kill your dipshit brother!” I yelled. Why the fuck did everyone think that? “Shut up, idiot,” Amanda said. “Well, I didn’t do it.”

“But now they know for sure you’re in here.”

Oops.

Amanda shouted, “God damn it, boys, this is a police station and I’m an officer of the law. You’ve jumped in a lake of shit and you just keep getting deeper and deeper. You get what I’m saying?”

Another pause.

Finally: “This ain’t over, Sawyer. Miss Amanda, you get in the way and whatever happens, happens.”

I heard an engine rev high, then the squeal of tires, and the engine roar faded down the road.

“Shit.” Amanda holstered her pistol and went to the gun cabinet, unlocked it, took out a pump twelve gauge and a box of double-ought. She started thumbing shells into the shotgun. “This time when I say stay and hold the fort I mean it, okay?”

“You can’t be going out there.”

She kept loading the shotgun.

“The State Police are coming. Just hang in here, and we’ll be okay.”

“If it were me,” Amanda said. “I’d pile a few loads of lumber against the front door and the back too. Couple gallons of gas. That would smoke us out pretty quick. You want to wait for that?”

I didn’t think the Jordans were that clever, but then I remembered the chief’s house was probably a pile of ashes by now. Maybe Amanda had a point. Passively sitting and waiting on the defensive had a few drawbacks. And yet I couldn’t quite bring myself to believe it was a good idea running out there looking for trouble.

“And anyway, I’m still the law,” she said. “I can’t let a bunch of rowdies rip up the town. At the very least I have to go keep an eye on them.”

“I still don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“I didn’t ask your opinion.” She went to the gun locker, came back with another twelve gauge and set it on the desk in front of me. “Hold the fort.”

She opened the front door, paused before stepping out, looking up and down Main Street. She gave me one last look, walked out and closed the door behind her. I went and locked it. A second later I heard her squad car crank and drive away.

“You’re all alone now, cowboy,” came a soft voice from the cell.

“I still have you, hellcat.”

“You know those men will come back,” she said. “And if they can get inside, then they will kill you.”

“Maybe.”

“Fool. Let me out, and we will escape.”

I tried to imagine it. Not seriously, just for something to do. I imagined her in a bikini or maybe topless on some Mexican beach. I sipped on some kind of rum thing with an umbrella poking out the top. There’s a reason they call them fantasies. Because it’s not life. I had to stay in my life and take care of my son. And anyway, how long would something like that last before the money ran out or she stabbed me in the back? But in my fantasies, she looked pretty good naked, the surf splashing up around us.

“What are you thinking, cowboy?”

“Nothing. I’m not thinking a thing.” I sat at the desk and put shells in the shotgun.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Amanda had left before the coffee was ready. I filled a Styrofoam cup and caffeinated myself in her honor. The coffee didn’t do much for me, but I drank it anyway. I swallowed and winced.

Like battery acid.

At some point I was going to hit the wall. A man can’t go forever on adrenaline and caffeine. I wondered what it would look like. If I’d be walking or in mid-sentence and then suddenly my eyes would roll up and I’d collapse into a snoring heap, slip into some kind of turbo coma. Or if my head would just explode and splatter brains all over the room.

I heard the engines outside so soon after Amanda had gone, it made me wonder if they’d been watching and waiting for her to leave.

The revolver hung heavy and reloaded on my hip. I grabbed the shotgun, flipped off the desk lamp. I stood in the darkness, palms sweating on the twelve gauge, strained to listen. A pale green light flickered from the obsolete computer in the corner. Another sad glow from the radio dial. Just enough light in the room to keep from bumping into the furniture.

“They are coming for you, cowboy.” The hellcat’s whisper was so low, I thought maybe it was a voice in my head.

The engines cut out, and I heard car doors thunk shut. I took a step forward, tried to catch a hint of movement through the wrecked blinds that still hung over the shattered front window. I could not make my breathing quiet down, breaths coming shallow through my mouth, my heart thumping up to speed.

I swallowed hard and waited.

Would they bust in all of a sudden with gun blazing, or would they burn me out like Amanda said? If they had the balls to torch the chief’s house then why not the station? Sure. Or maybe they’d come at me from two directions at once. I glanced over my shoulder at the door to the back room, thought about the other door out to the alley. Had I locked it? I couldn’t remember.

Hell.

I went to the back room, trying to stay quiet. The room smelled like gun oil and bitter coffee. My mouth tasted like acid. I reached for the knob to check the lock.

And froze.

The knob was already turning, so damn slowly so as not to make any noise, I guess, but there was still this slight rattle, and I’d never have heard it if I hadn’t been standing a foot away. And maybe if I’d been thinking clearly instead of feeling my gut flip-flop and my heart beat in my throat, I would have thought to put my shoulder against the door and hit the lock.

But I stood there watching the doorknob turn like some dumbass in a cheap horror movie.

And then someone was pushing it open. Somebody was coming in.

I held my breath and stepped behind the door, pulling the shotgun in close to my chest. The door opened inward until it was an inch from my face. Let him come in. Let him go by. Take him from behind. Sure. It seemed pretty simple when I rehearsed it in my head. So how come my legs felt like noodles? Stay focused, idiot.

He was trying to be quiet and not doing a bad job, but the old floor creaked with his footsteps, one after the other pretty slow as he eased his way in. I saw his fist first, wrapped around a short-barreled revolver, then his arm and then the rest as he went through toward the main part of the station house. From behind it could have been Jason, or maybe it was one of the others. Too dark to be sure, and anyway the brothers were all built more or less the same, this one maybe a bit on the larger side.

I waited two more seconds in case another brother came in behind him. I didn’t want to get caught in the middle. When I was sure I was only dealing with one, I stepped out and leveled the shotgun at him. Just shoot, I told myself. Pull the trigger.

No, do it proper.

“Drop the gun.” I said it pretty quiet, but I tried to sound mean.

His shoulders hunched and he froze. “Damn it.”

“Put the gun down. I mean it.”

He dropped it.

I thought how cool and threatening it might sound to pump a new shell into the chamber, but that would only eject a good one. “Now I want you to turn around nice and slow, and—”

He spun fast, grabbed the shotgun barrel and pushed it out of the way. If I’d fired the blast would have gone past him, but I didn’t even think of pulling the trigger. I was too surprised. The shotgun flew away. I stepped back, mouth falling open, probably to say something clever like hey, stop that, no fair. But I never got any words out.

He stepped in, fist coming up hard to pop me one in the mouth, mashing my lips against my teeth. A little bell went off inside my skull. I tasted blood, took another hit on the jaw, tumbling back along the lockers before I figured it was time to give a little back.

I put my head down and pushed forward, gut punching him. My fists didn’t seem to bother him, and he brought a knee up into my groin.

Little multi-colored firework explosions went off in front of my eyes, and all the air went out of me. I shuffled backwards as fast as I could, trying to put a few feet between us and catch my breath. Except I couldn’t catch any breath. When I tried, my throat made a deep hoarse sound.

He wasn’t about to let up, came at me fast. I reached out for anything to hit him with, and my hand landed on the handle of the coffee pot. I splashed it straight at him, and the hot coffee caught him full in the face.

He screamed, hand going up to claw at his scorched eyeballs. I broke the coffee pot over his head, and he staggered and cursed. I hit the side of his face with my fist, mustered everything I had and hit him again. He went down and didn’t get up.

I slumped against the wall, gulping for air. The ache spreading out from my groin almost made me puke. I thought also I might have wanted to cry a little bit, but I didn’t. I gave myself thirty seconds to rest, then I pushed myself up and hit the light switch.

It wasn’t Jason on the floor but Matthew. A little bigger and slower and dumber than Jason, younger than all the rest except for Luke. I took a spare pair of cuffs from my locker, slapped one bracelet on Matthew’s wrist and the other to one of the locker handles. I picked up the shotgun and limped back to the front part of the station house, just in time to hear all hell breaking loose on the front door.

They must have been using something as a battering ram, because each slam almost banged the door off its hinges. On the fourth bang the door popped open and bodies filled the doorway, wide-shouldered silhouettes all holding rifles.

I lifted the shotgun and fired.

The whole station house filled with the thunder. The hellcat screamed, and the lead man in the doorway convulsed and pitched forward. Some guy I’d never seen before, another Jordan toady, I guessed. I pumped in another shell and fired, but the others had already retreated.

A hand came around the corner and filled the station-house with random pistol fire. I ran forward and threw myself behind the desk. Bullets pinged around the room. Pencils and paper on the desktop danced and flew in all directions. I raised up, eyes and shotgun just above the edge of the desk, ready to blast anyone who came through. I didn’t plan on arresting anyone. Shoot to kill.

There was a lull in the gunplay, and I heard quick footsteps and muffled voices.

A bright, flickering orange blur flew threw the doorway in a low arc, landed with the sound of broken glass. The gasoline spread and a wall of flame sprang up as if by magic, washing the stationhouse in hellish dancing light, The wave of heat hit me, and I hoped there wasn’t another Molotov cocktail following the first or things would get impossible pretty damn quick.

I leaned the shotgun against the desk and grabbed the key ring, ran to the hellcat’s cell and unlocked it, swung open the door.

“Quickly, out the back!” She made to run past me.

I grabbed her wrist and hauled her back, drew the revolver with my other hand but didn’t point it at her.

“Are you insane,” She said. “The fire will spread.”

“Get that fire extinguisher off the wall over there.” I pointed with the revolver. “I’ll cover you.”

“If we run, we can make it.”

I put the gun in her face. “Get the Goddamn fire extinguisher!”

Her eyes stabbed hatred at me, but she bit off whatever curse she’d been about to offer and ran to pull down the extinguisher. There was a pin she had to pull and a handle to squeeze. She started messing with it, and for as second I thought I’d have to put down the revolver to show her how. But she got it right and pointed it at the flames and squeezed the handle, a blizzard of white whooshing out, shrinking the fire a bit at a time.

And I guess that’s what they’d been waiting for because then suddenly Clay Jordan filled the doorway with a deer rifle in has hands and brought it up to his shoulder for a shot.

I squeezed the revolver’s trigger three times. The first two shots chewed up chunks of door frame, splinters of wood flying around Clay’s head. On the third shot, Clay dropped the deer rifle and grabbed the fleshy part of his upper thigh. He threw his head back and yelled. I saw hands yank him back from the doorway.

The hellcat had half the fire out and seemed to have the jump on the rest. Maybe if—

Blinding pain erupted at the base of my skull. I staggered forward, but somehow kept my feet, turned around, trying to bring the revolver to bear, but it felt like it weighed a ton. I saw a long, flat piece of metal swing down and smack my hand open. The revolver flew away.

I saw now that it was Matthew Jordan hulking over me. In the firelight I could see one ear bloody from the bash I’d given him with the coffee pot. He was still handcuffed to the locker door which he’d ripped off the hinges and was using as a club. He cranked it back for a swing at my head.

And got a face full of extinguisher foam. The hellcat was there, thrusting the extinguisher nozzle at Matthew and running out the rest of the foam.

He coughed, pawed at his eyes. “Fucking bitch.”

“I owe you this, Matthew.” I kicked him in the balls. Hard.

He let out this little squeak and went to his knees. One hand still wiped at his eyes. The other went to his groin. His face went so red I thought he might rupture.

I picked up my revolver and slapped him in the side of the head with it. He flopped over like a dead fish. I lifted the gun to bash him again but stopped myself. I wanted to, but no.

I motioned to the hellcat. “Help me lift him. We can drag him into the cell and—”

She slammed the empty fire extinguisher into my gut. I bent double sucking for air and went down, looked up just in time to see her vanishing through the back room.

I lurched to my feet, took three steps after her and stopped. Forget it. The one that got away. She was a criminal, probably a killer. The hellcat had trafficked in human lives across the border. The star on my shirt meant I was supposed to go get her, lock her up. But she’d helped me in the instant I’d needed it, right when Matthew Jordan was about to smash my head in. That probably didn’t go very far to balance out whatever wrongs she’d done, but it would have to do for now.

And anyway I had bigger worries. More Jordan brothers who wanted to kill me. And the station house was still a little bit on fire.

I grabbed a blanket from the cell, used it to smother the last few patches of flaming floor. That put us back mostly into darkness, except for the extra street light coming through the open front door. I dragged Matthew into the vacant cell and clanked the door shut.

It was suddenly weird and quiet in the stationhouse. I couldn’t even hear Karl’s snoring anymore, and I wondered how he could have kept sleeping with all the gunfire and mayhem. Maybe he was pretending.

Let him pretend.

I drew the revolver and took a few steps toward the front door, cocked an ear and strained to listen. For a second I thought—hoped—the rest of the Jordans had pissed off. Maybe shooting Clay in the leg had stung them into giving up. But I could still hear them out there, voices raised like maybe they were arguing.

Maybe deciding what they were going to do about me. Maybe toss in another gasoline bomb.

No more waiting. I grabbed the shotgun, loaded fresh shells. Time to take it on the offensive.

Showdown.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I had to do it fast.

Any other way and I’d lose my nerve or just collapse from exhaustion. There wasn’t much left in me, but I was-n’t going to fold, not yet. This would finish it. I had to make it to the end. So I took a deep breath, dug down deep for that last burst of adrenaline, pushed away every ache and pain that throbbed along the length of my entire body.

Time to kill some guys.

I went through the backdoor and into the alley, pumped a shell into the chamber. I circled all the way around the firehouse at a slow jog, hit Main Street and turned back toward the station. I kept close to the buildings, jogging in the shadows.

I could see them up ahead, two pickup trucks, one facing in each direction, blocking Main Street, headlights on. I saw Jason and Evan standing to either side of the stationhouse door. They both held deer rifles and looked poised to charge in at me. But I wasn’t in there. I was out here.

And bringing it strong.

I ran at them fast, lifting the shotgun. I got pretty close before Clay saw me. He sat in the back of the closest pickup, foot propped up on an Igloo cooler, white bandages around his wounded leg, a red blotch seeping through. He turned his head and saw me, his eyes going big as hubcaps as I sprinted forward. Home stretch. I ran as fast as I could make myself while still keeping the shotgun up.

Clay overreached for the deer rifle in the bed of the truck and fell off his perch, rolled out of the truck and hit the street with a grunt. He stood, hopped on one foot and reached for the rifle again.

I cut loose with the twelve gauge.

The shotgun bucked in my hands, buckshot splattering across Clay’s torso. He convulsed like he’d been hit with a million volts, shrank to the ground and sat in a bulky pile of dead.

Jason and Evan spotted me. And I looked at them and our eyes met and just like that it was on, as if the eye contact had triggered some primal, animal charge.

I started running again, pumping in shells and firing and pumping. I was a screaming, running blizzard of buckshot, spitting fire. Thunder rattling the whole town. They ran at me too. Both crazy with banshee yells. We were a hell of a collision in the making.

I had the advantage, spraying buckshot. They ran awkward, shooting, trying to work the bolt actions on the deer rifles. Try it sometime, shooting and running at the same time. The shots went wide, and I almost didn’t care if I hit anything or not. I wanted noise and death. Let it all finish here. Pump, shoot, pump.

Twenty feet apart I made Evan’s face disappear in a horrible spray of blood and flesh. I pumped, swung the shotgun at Jason. Everything slowed. He worked the bolt action, eyes like a frightened rabbit’s. I could see all the mistakes in his face. He knew. The fear bringing it home. He knew in that moment it had all been a mistake, that he was going to die bloody and bad.

But he kept trying. I’ll give him that. He was game. He worked the bolt, tried to bring the rifle level for a final shot. Maybe he could get lucky. I shot from the hip, and blood exploded across Jason’s chest. The deer rifle flew away. He fell backward, slowly, like he was falling through cotton. That’s how I saw it. He hit the pavement and bounced. Lay there with his eyes wide open.

I thought he was dead, but he suddenly violently sucked for air. He coughed and gasped.

I knelt next to him, didn’t even feel angry. Didn’t feel anything.

Jason’s eyes focused on me. “You.” “Me.”

“You … fucking … fuck.” His breath came shallow, blood on his lips. I could almost hear the wrecked machinery of his guts and chest grinding out his final seconds.

“Why do you think I killed Luke, Jason?”

“We all know it was … you … son of a—” He broke off in a fit of coughing, spasms along his whole body.

“Why?”

“Call an … ambulance.”

I grabbed two fistfuls of Jason’s shirt, lifted his head off the road. “Why did I kill Luke? You got me pegged for it, don’t you? Okay then, tell me why.”

“Don’t be s-stupid.” Jason coughed again, more blood foaming out of his mouth, running down his chin, face going so white.

I shook him hard, his eyes pin-balling in his skull. “I asked you a question, Jason.”

“You know why,” he said. “Luke and D-Doris. Jealous, so you … killed …”

He froze, like somebody hit the pause button on his face. And suddenly he seemed plastic, his eyes like glass. I checked for a pulse. Nothing. I set him back on the ground and sighed over him. He looked smaller somehow, like he’d shrunk there on the road when the life had gone out of him.

I looked at his face. I wanted to see that Jordan sneer. I wanted to see the wild eyed rage I’d seen so long ago when he’d beat the hell out of that Mark kid at the Tastee-Freeze.

That was the Jason Jordan I’d hoped to kill, the animal, the reckless bully. The Jason that deserved to be gunned down in the street.

But all I saw was fear. The last expression on Jason Jordan’s face, his gaze fixed into the distance, frozen stare at the big unknown coming right at him. I didn’t even want the answers to my questions anymore. I’d had bad answers to too many questions already. There was nothing left to do but haul away the bodies and hose the blood off the road.

People were coming out to the street, wrapping themselves in bathrobes, putting on glasses. I don’t know why, but I felt embarrassed to have them looking at me. But I supposed I’d have been curious too.

“Back inside, folks,” I yelled. “Everything’s under control.” I stood, made some kind of everything-is-okay gesture, hoping they’d all scoot back inside without question.

“What are you playing at, Toby?” It was Richard Macon, the hardware store owner. “Where’s the chief?”

“The chief’s on his way,” I told them. “By order of the Coyote Crossing Police Department, I’m asking you to all go back inside.”

“I’ve known you since you were six years old, Toby Sawyer,” Macon said. “Now, tell me what in blue blazes is going on.”

“You know me, and I know you too, Mr. Macon.” I thumbed the tin star on my shirt. “But tonight, I’m the law. Now you people get your goddamned asses back inside.”

And they did.

They grumbled and gawked at the bodies in the street, but they went. Soon doors were closing. I saw only a few faces peeking though curtains. Maybe I had some kind of authority they believed in, or maybe the fact I’d lied about the chief being on his way was good enough. Or maybe when a man with a gun tells you to do something, you do it.

I picked up the shotgun and put it on my shoulder, sucked in a big lungful of night air. Night. There wasn’t much left of it. The sun would be poking up over the horizon soon. The night was over. Everything was over. No more Jordans. No more Mexican smugglers. With morning would come the fallout. The State Police with mops and brooms and hard questions that I didn’t have all the answers for.

Hell.

I could use a bed. Maybe a hundred hours sleep.

I went back into the station and tried the phone, but no luck. The whole place still smelled scorched. It was a hell of a mess.

“Goddamn, son, what the hell did you do to this place?”

I flinched at the sudden voice behind me, turned and saw him coming from the back room.

“Been one hell of a night, ain’t it, boy?” said Chief Krueger. “I suppose you might have a few questions.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I didn’t have jack shit when I came back to Coyote Crossing. Nothing but a dilapidated trailer and a headstone with my mother underneath. Frank Krueger had been like some salty, distant uncle. The chief had known my father, not a lot but some. I told him I’d somehow managed to squeak through the academy and he tossed a part-time job my way, something to keep me in beer and cigarettes until I moved on. He put his trust in me right away, and that gave me a little pride when I didn’t have much else to cling to.

But I didn’t move on. That had been the plan, but it just didn’t happen. I’d stayed. Krueger must have felt like he’d been stuck with some idiot relation, but he never said a word. Never treated me like a charity case. Yeah, I’d pulled grunt work and crap night duty. But the chief never acted like he was tossing scraps to a mutt. Which was more the truth.

Things seemed to have changed since he was standing there pointing a pistol at me.

I shook my head, tried to clear the cobwebs. So tired. “Chief?”

The chief tsked, shook his head too but more like in a sad way, like he had to put down a pony with a broken leg. “You just couldn’t go home and mind your business, could you, son?”

Shit.

“Did you really gun down all them Jordans?” He chuckled. “Jesus, boy. I got to hand it to you. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

I looked him over then said, “You’re not wearing your hat.”

“Huh?” He ran his hands through his thinning salt and pepper hair. “Oh, yeah.” He grinned. “It got smudged.”

“I thought the blood … It wasn’t yours.”

“Nope,” Krueger said. “I got my hands dirty and got it on my lid. I guess maybe you got the wrong idea.”

“You burned down your own house, didn’t you?”

“I want them looking through the rubble for my body,” he said. “Give me a little more time to get away, find a place to lay low.”

I felt something like lead grow cold and heavy in my gut. “So you were in it with the Jordans and the Mexicans the whole time.”

“Hell no,” Krueger said. “I’d as soon have a pack of chimps working for me as the Jordans. Just Luke. We paid him to drive sometimes and to keep his mouth shut. Dumb son of a bitch can usually scrape enough brains together to take his pay and go on about his business without causing any trouble.”

“But not tonight.”

“No, not tonight,” Kruger said and sighed. “Horny bastard had to play funny with the sister of one of those banditos. Shouldn’t be surprised. Luke never could keep himself zipped up. But I guess you already know all about that.”

I summoned everything I had into a cold stare. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He smiled sadly, shook his head, and just for a minute the colorful old uncle was back. “No, I guess not. That’s fine. But anyway Luke Jordan got himself dead.”

“With the keys to the truck in his pocket,” I said.

“I got back to Luke with a body bag, wrapped him all up like it was police business. Didn’t want an audience while I searched him. People were looking out their windows. And I didn’t want the keys locked up in the evidence closet. So I took him back to my place. Luke was supposed to give the keys to Billy before he went off drinking at Skeeter’s.” For just a second, the chief looked pained. “I found Billy’s body. You did quite a number on him.”

“He needed it.”

“I can understand that,” Krueger said. “Just a damn shame is all. The whole situation’s just a damn shame, and that’s for sure. If things had turned out just a little different … well, they didn’t, and here we are. A shame.”

“What’s the shame, Chief? That Billy’s dead, or that you can’t smuggle illegals no more?”

“Now you just come down from your high horse, Toby. I care about my people. I care what happens to Billy. I’d care if it was you too. Fact is the smuggling was about to dry up anyway. This Mexican crime gang brings them over the border, and they come through here and get spread all over. Some to work mines out west or other places to work the crops. This was a quiet little nowhere stop to switch drivers and get the wetbacks some food and water. But there’s federal people sniffing around up north and border patrol getting tighter down south. Too risky now. Too bad we didn’t shut down a little sooner. Could have saved some trouble.”

Some trouble. I understood now how Roy reacted when he’d seen his truck all banged up, and I’d said there’d been some trouble. Understatement of the fucking year.

I nodded at the gun in his hand. “So what happens now?”

“Looks like I got to get the hell out of Dodge,” Krueger said. “No way to cover up this mess. You’ve had a busy night. But I don’t blame you. I surely don’t.” He shrugged. “Shit happens, as the saying goes. No grudges.”

“No grudges. That sounds good. So maybe put the gun away.”

“No, sorry, son, but I can’t do that. I’m going to shoot you all right, but it’s purely practical, not cause I’m upset with you. I promise. There’s just no other way this can happen.”

My heart sank all the way down to the bottom, but I couldn’t help thinking at least it would be over. The long hard night would end at last. Maybe somebody would call Doris and tell her to come get the boy. Thinking of my son brought that ache behind my eyes like when I’m about to start crying.

Oh God.

“Sorry, son.” And Krueger really did look sorry. Sorry, old and tired. “But I got to think of myself now, and this is the simplest way.”

He raised the pistol, and I felt a warm, fat tear roll down my cheek.

“Stop right there, Chief.”

Amanda had come through the back, had her pistol aimed at the chief, walking slowly forward. I could have kissed her.

Amanda said, “I’m making a habit out of saving you, Toby. Maybe you’d better—”

The chief didn’t hesitate, spun fast, bringing the pistol around. Amanda fired. The pistol flew from Krueger’s hand. He grunted, clenched his teeth, and brought the bloody hand to his chest. His face went pale, sweat breaking out on his forehead. His breathing went fast and heavy like he’d just run a mile.

“That’s some shot,” Krueger said. It was an effort for him to talk. Blood spilled down his wounded hand. “Just like Wyatt Earp.”

“I was aiming for your chest,” Amanda said.

Krueger chuckled.

She spared me a glance. “You okay, Toby?”

I nodded. “But it was close.”

She edged around Kruger toward me, keeping her gun on him. She backed up against the cell, fished into her pocket for the cell keys. “We’ll put him in here, and then call the doc to come—”

One arm came through the bars of the cell and went around Amanda’s throat. Another arm grabbed her gun wrist, pointed the pistol at the ceiling. She struggled, but the thick arms held her tight against the bars. Amanda went purple, her slim hand pulling uselessly at Karl’s massive forearm.

I turned, made ready to leap for my revolver on the floor.

Even wounded, the chief was too quick.

He was already coming up from the floor where he’d knelt to pull a small revolver from an ankle holster, probably the .32 I’d seen him cleaning once in awhile when things were slow around the station. Not a powerful gun, but plenty enough to make me pure dead.

I watched as Amanda kicked and twitched and then went limp. Karl released her and she slid to the floor.

“She dead?” Krueger asked.

“No,” Karl told him. “I put a sleeper on her.” Karl limped in his cell, held himself up by the bars.

“Can you walk?”

“No way,” Karl said. “Bitch shot me. I’m stiff all up and down one side. Couldn’t take more that two steps.”

“That’s a damn shame.”

The .32 spat fire twice, and Karl’s eyes went wide as he fell back on his cot, bounced off and hit the cell floor.

“Why in the hell did you do that?” I asked.

“I need a pair of good legs, and Karl would have wanted his cut of the money.”

“You could have given it to him.”

“And I would have too if everything hadn’t got so messed up,” Krueger said. “But the situation has changed. I’m going to need every dime if I have to go on the run. I might try to get to Mexico. Hey, that’s probably some kind of irony or something. All this time I been bringing wet-backs north. Now I got to smuggle myself south.”

He looked at the bodies on the floor and sighed. I sighed too. In such a short span of time the station had been torched and wrecked, bodies littering the floor. Surreal. One of Molly’s words.

“Okay,” Krueger said. “Best get this show on the road.” He waved toward the back room with the revolver. “Let’s go.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I told you I need a good pair of legs.” He held up his bloody hand. “And two good arms. I need you to carry something to the car for me.”

“And then you’ll shoot me? Fuck that.”

“Okay, I won’t shoot you,” he said. “You help me, and I’ll lock you in the cell. That’ll give me a head start.”

“And I’m supposed to trust you?”

“I could shoot you now and end all the suspense, make do best I can with one arm.”

I headed for the back room, and he fell in behind me.

“Okay,” he said. “Go to the safe. I’ll tell you the numbers, and you work it.”

He told me the numbers and I spun the dial.

“Open it.”

I opened it.

I didn’t think I had enough energy left to be surprised by anything. I was wrong. The safe was packed top to bottom and front to back with tight bundles of cash. It was hard not to be impressed. I could slave all my life and probably never see so much cash.

“In the last locker there’s a gym bag,” he told me. “Fill it up.”

The bag was cheap, bright red and said Razorback Pride on the side with the Arkansas pig logo. I unzipped it and started loading the cash. None of the bills were new. Wrinkled. Various denominations, fives, tens, twenties. The variation made it hard to guess the total amount. A lot. I stuffed in the last bundle, zipped up the bag. The cash barely fit, the bag bulging.

“Good,” Krueger said. “Now go back to the same locker and get that accordion file folder. Lots of names and embarrassing facts in there. I’ll probably burn most of it, but I need to go through it all first.”

I went back into the locker, got the file folder.

“Now grab it all up and let’s go back out to the alley. I’m parked back there.”

I went out ahead of him, feeling like there was a big bullseye target on my back. I’d expected to see his cruiser, but it was his personal car, a big luxury Chrysler about a year old. The chief wasn’t a pickup truck kind of guy.

“Stand over on the other side of the car.”

I did.

He dipped his hand down to his pocket, still holding the revolver, and hooked his keychain out with his little finger. It was awkward going, but he wasn’t about to drop the gun, and he couldn’t use the other hand.

He pulled the keys out and flung them at me. They bounced off my chest and hit the ground. I set down the bag of money and the file folder, bent and picked up the keys.

“Open the trunk,” Krueger said. “Load it up.”

I opened the trunk, picked up the files and money. I felt like I was moving through mud, my arms and legs like cold stone. These were the last moments of my life. Lifting the cash, loading the files, closing the trunk. My last actions on earth. I felt I could hardly breath, like life would leave me all on its own before the chief could even pull the trigger. Part of my brain told me to jump him or run for it or anything. But I didn’t do it, couldn’t make myself do anything but obey.

When the trunk thunked shut, it sounded like a cold metal coffin closing.

“Okay, now back away,” Krueger said.

We circled each other in the narrow alley, traded places, him standing next to his car, me backed up against the trashcan near the backdoor. We looked at each other a moment, the sky going a vague orange. The sun was gearing up for morning, light seeping into the world, the color slowly coming back. The chief looked death pale, his hair now completely matted with sweat. I didn’t think he’d last long on the run, unless he knew some doctor someplace that maybe owed him a favor.

But it was hard to think beyond the alley and the .32 in the chief’s fist.

“You’re not talking me back inside to lock me in the cell, are you, Chief?”

He sighed. “No. I guess not.”

“You’re going to shoot me now.”

He nodded. “I like you, Toby. I think you could have grown up and been something. But this is just business. I need to get away as clean as I can, nobody left to answer questions.”

I tried to think of some startling piece of logic to convince him to let me live, but I could only think of one word to say.

“Please.”

“I’m sorry,” Krueger said. “I’ll do what I can. I’ll make it a clean shot. You want to turn around? Maybe it’ll be easier if you don’t see it.”

And right then it didn’t matter how many cowboy movies I’d seen or any cartoon notion I had about being a hero. Right in that moment, I didn’t want to see it coming. The image of a bullet coming straight for my nose sent a wave of nausea though me. I was a coward, and I didn’t care.

“Okay, wait. L-let me …” I hated how my voice trembled. “Let me turn around.”

“Go on then.”

I turned around, and just like that my knees gave out. So light headed. Fear and fatigue and misery pulling me down. I caught myself on the metal trash can, stayed like that for a long moment.

“Wait,” I said. “Please. I don’t want it in the back. Let me stand up like a man. I can do that at least.”

“I understand. Get on your feet.”

I pushed myself up, slowly at first.

Then I spun quickly and fired the little green squirt gun.

The ammonia sprayed across his eyes. He yelled pain, fired the revolver, but I’d already ducked underneath and was flying at him for a tackle. It was like throwing myself into a tank, but we went over, me on top, and I had one hand around his gun wrist. With my other hand, I dug a thumb into the bloody bullet hole in the chief’s palm.

He screamed, and bucked me off, but he also let go of the revolver.

I grabbed it, stood, backed up three steps. He stood too, cradled his wounded hand. We stared at each other a second, panting.

“All right now,” I said, catching my breath. “Let’s get you inside and into a cell.”

Krueger shook his head. “Nope.”

“I’m telling you—”

“Jail’s not an option, boy. I won’t do it.” He came toward me.

“Hold it right there.”

“You’re going to have to make a decision.” He summoned a burst of speed and was on me, his good hand going to my throat.

I strained in his grasp, tried to pull his grip loose with my free hand. “Don’t make … me … shoot …” The hand clamped tighter, cutting off oxygen.

“Don’t …” I put the gun against his chest.

“You either got the guts for it or you don’t, boy. But this is how it ends, one way or another.”

Buzzing in my … ears.

My eyesight fuzzed and went dark, mouth opening and closing … trying

… to find.

Air. Bang.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

When my eyes popped open, I was flat on my back in the alley. I sat up. My throat felt like it was full of hot gravel. The chief lay near me, a hole in the center of his chest. I still clutched the little revolver. I stuck it in my pocket, pushed myself up. My legs felt weak. I was a little dizzy.

Had I been out ten seconds or ten minutes? It didn’t matter, I went back inside the station, tossed the .32 on the desk and knelt next to Amanda. She seemed to be breathing normally. Bruises already formed around her throat. I wondered if I’d need Doc Gordon, hoped maybe the phones had come back on by some miracle. I slapped her lightly on the face. It took some coaxing, but she came around.

“You okay?”

She nodded. “I’m a little light headed but I’ll live. Where’s the chief?”

“In the alley.”

“Where are you going?”

I grabbed the shotgun and was already heading for the door. “I’ve got to do something.”

She shouted something after me, but I didn’t listen.

I was out to Main Street before she could stop me. I didn’t think I really needed the shotgun, but I couldn’t imagine going anywhere ever again unarmed. The sun was up. People were out.

Wayne Dobbs tried to stop me as I walked. “What the hell’s been going on, Toby? People says there’s been gunshots.”

“It’s over now. Under control.” I didn’t even slow down.

I met Roy and Howard coming the other way.

“Can I go home yet?”

“Thirty minutes, Roy.” I kept walking.

I got to Molly’s street, heard the rumble of a big engine, turned back to look.

An old school bus heading out of town. The Mexican illegals hung from the windows, the faces of men, women and children. I saw my smoking buddy. He waved as they went past. I returned the wave but didn’t pause.

When I got to Molly’s, I let myself in as quietly as I could.

The boy still slept on the couch, a little drool in the corner of his mouth. I wanted to cry he looked so beautiful.

I went into the bathroom, scooped sink water into my mouth, swallowed. It felt cool on my raw throat. There was a little mirror near the sink. Molly probably used it for makeup. I grabbed it and took it back into the living room.

I sat on the floor next to the couch, looked at the boy’s face, then at my own in the mirror. I tried to see any hint of me in him. The ears, the nose, the shape of his cheeks, the chin. The color of his hair had been dark when he was first born, but it had gotten lighter each year, with a little strawberry. I looked at myself in the mirror again. Bloodied, bruised and dirty.

“He’s been asleep the whole time.”

I looked up, saw Molly coming into the room. She’d put on jeans.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“I think so. It’s all over.”

“I need to talk to you, Toby.”

I stood, set the mirror on the coffee table. “Okay.”

“I don’t—and please don’t be upset—but I don’t think we should see each other any more.”

“Okay.”

“It’s just, you know, this stuff with Roy, and the whole night’s been crazy, and I’ll be heading away for college soon.”

“I know. It’s okay.” “I really am sorry.”

“I don’t want you to feel bad about it,” I said. “We both knew you’d be going away. Go to college. Get out of this town. Go be something.”

A smile tried to invent itself at the corners of her mouth but didn’t get very far. “Thanks, Toby.”

There would be part of me inside that would be raw and hollow for a while after she left, and I’d get lonely, long for her touch, need to feel her beneath me. But thinking about her leaving wasn’t as hard as I thought. It even seemed right, which was a good thing because it was going to happen anyway whether I thought it right or not.

But there was more too. I would miss her when she was gone, but it would be a relief too.

“Thank you for watching TJ. I didn’t have anyone else.”

“He was good. He slept.”

“Thanks.”

I bent and scooped up the boy. I held him against my chest with one arm, and he nuzzled his head under my chin, murmuring and drowsy. With the other hand I grabbed the shotgun.

“Roy will be back soon,” I told her. “But I think he knows to leave you alone. Just stay out of each other’s way until you go to college.”

“Don’t worry.” “Goodbye, Molly.”

“Goodbye, Toby.”

And I thought maybe I should kiss her on the cheek or something, but I didn’t.

I walked out and didn’t know where I was going. My Nova was flipped and it was too far to walk back to my trailer. I headed for the stationhouse.

Coming down Main Street I saw the lights. Two State Police squad cars—no, three. They parked behind and alongside the Jordans’ pickup trucks, the blues and reds going crazy, the street filling with citizens who couldn’t help but take a look. It had all been too much for the little town, like some bloody carnival act. Everybody wanted a peek at the show.

There would be hard questions. Accusations and blame. But the boy was safe, and I was alive. I’d come though the long night.

I cradled the boy, put the shotgun on my shoulder and walked toward the lights.

My boy was safe. My son.

Mine. And God help any man who said different.

ONE YEAR LATER

EPILOGUE

I walked into the stationhouse, passed Amanda at the front desk. Another long night shift almost over. “I need to speak with you, Toby.”

“Sure. Can I get some coffee first?”

“No problem.”

I went into the back room, poured a fresh cup from the expensive new silver coffee maker. It had a timer on it, and I always set the thing to finish up about five minutes before I walked in, so the stuff would be fresh. I bought the coffee maker out of my first paycheck after they put me on full time. Good coffee too. Columbian.

I filled my mug, went back to the front desk and flopped into the chair opposite Amanda. “How was it out there tonight?” she asked, not looking up from her stack of paperwork.

“Caught some kids parking and told them to go home.”

“A regular crime wave. Anything else?”

“Slow,” I said.

“Good. Mrs. Carmichael called in a complaint again about dogs getting into her trash cans. Keep an eye out for strays, okay?”

“Right.” We got that complaint from somebody about twice a month. I supposed I’d do what I always did. Not a damn thing.

“How’s that Indian woman working out?”

“Alice. Good,” I said. “The boy likes her, and her schedule is pretty flexible. I pay her okay.”

“Sounds like it’s working out.”

“It is.”

Since that long bad night, Molly had gone off to college. In San Francisco, it turns out. I got exactly one letter from her, saying how great it was and that I should come visit. I didn’t answer that letter and didn’t get any more. From Doris I’d not heard one peep. Nothing. God help her if she suddenly felt maternal and came back for the boy. Just let her try.

The Jordan Brothers were all buried together on a Saturday, dowager Antonia looking regal in black. The funeral was crowded. The last bit of hurrah for the biggest thing that had happened to the town in decades. Not big in a good way, but it made an impact, and people wanted to be part of it in some way.

People are strange.

Antonia lived three more months and died in her sleep. Maybe she didn’t have anything left to live for.

I got a courtesy call that autumn from the warden of the prison where they kept Brett, the oldest Jordan brother. There’d been talk around the yard about how he was going to pay me back times ten when he got out of stir. I thanked the warden for the heads up. Just another little something to worry about in three to five years.

I never saw one of the illegal Mexicans again. They’d promised to get far away, and they’d kept that promise.

I sipped coffee and tried not to get lost in past history.

“Thought I’d tell you we’re putting on two new deputies in a week,” Amanda said.

One of my eyebrows went up. “Oh?”

“Took forever and a day to get all the paperwork through, and then it took even longer to find acceptable people willing to move out here to the middle of nowhere. This isn’t exactly America’s fastest growing metropolis. But we managed to find a couple decent candidates.”

“Well. That’s good then.” We’d been stretched pretty thin.

“I need to tell you something else. I’m quitting effective the end of the month.”

I stopped sipping coffee, put the mug on the desk. “What?”

“I got a job offer in Idaho,” Amanda said. “In one of the ski resort towns. I thought I’d work on my snowboarding.”

“Congratulations.”

“I’m recommending you for Chief of Police.”

I laughed. Hard.

The last year had not been all pleasant. There had been inquiries. The town bloodbath had made the papers in Stillwater and Tulsa. Various insurance companies did not like me. But I had uncovered smugglers and a corrupt police chief. I had been put onto the force full time, a situation which I took as a vote of confidence, although the fact there was nobody else immediately available to do the job was no small part of the decision. There were still a few pending questions (mostly from insurance adjusters) but it looked like there was light at the end of the tunnel.

But Chief of Police? I just couldn’t swallow it. I told Amanda as much.

“Think about it,” she said. “These new guys don’t know the town. Don’t know the people. The town council can appoint you Chief of Police. If you want to be Sheriff too, you’ll have to go get those votes yourself. But you grew up around here. You’ve earned some respect.”

Maybe. I wanted to believe her. I wanted to think the folks in this town would trust me to do a good job.

“Anyway, my recommendation doesn’t mean it’s a done deal. But just think about it. That coffee smells good.”

“Help yourself.”

“Thanks. I think I will.” She went into the back room.

I leaned back in the chair, closed my eyes and sipped coffee. It tasted fine. I replayed the events of that night from a year ago, saw it in my head like a little movie. Me and The chief in that alley. His hand on my throat, the gun against his chest. I shivered just thinking about it. How close a thing it had been. I can almost remember pulling the trigger, or maybe I can only imagine it. I’d been a little fuzzy in the head.

But I’d killed him.

The chief was dead. Long live the chief.

VICTOR GISCHLER is a world traveler, self-proclaimed chicken wing afficianado, Edgar and Anthony Award nominee, Pisces and masked do-badder. His work has been translated into French, Italian, Spanish, German and Japanese. He does not know karate, so feel free to push him down and take his wallet. He earned his Ph.D. in English at the University of Southern Mississippi where they fed him raw liver and beat him with rolled up newspapers. He lives in Baton Rouge with his wife and son.