Judgment Day -03 (23 page)

Mason started to turn away and put a little distance between them, but she reached out and touched his arm.

“Please, Marshal. I don’t have anyone else to ask. Most of us don’t have cars anymore because of the gas shortage. Those who do are too afraid to leave town unless it’s absolutely necessary. Helping out a—well, you know—a working girl, isn’t seen as worth the risk.”

“Why don’t you ask the sheriff? He seems okay.”

“He is okay. But Sheriff Billings won’t take me either.”

“Why not?”

She shrugged. “Partly because he thinks it’s his job to stay here and protect the town. Mostly because he thinks I’m worrying over nothing.” She leaned up against him. “Please, Marshal.”

Trish’s beautiful brown eyes were intoxicating, and Mason felt his legs growing weak.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll run you out there in the morning.”

“Really?”

“Sure, why not?” He turned and walked back over to the bed and flopped down, not trusting himself to overcome the lust growing in his belly. “Pull the door shut on your way out. I’ll meet you in the lobby once I get up and moving.”

But Trish didn’t leave. Instead, she locked the door and then came and stood beside his bed.

“I want to thank you for your troubles,” she said, standing with her arms at her side so that he could get a good look at her petite body.

Mason knew what she was getting at, but he also knew he couldn’t accept that kind of thanks.

“I can’t,” he said, his voice breaking slightly.

“Why? Are you gay?”

He laughed. “No.”

“You have a wife then?”

“A girlfriend, over in Boone.”

“And you want to remain faithful to her?”

“I do.”

Her lips turned up into an understanding, but incredibly seductive, smile.

“Then I’ll give you as much as you want and nothing more.”

He started to protest but found himself without words as she untied the strings of her dress and let it fall to the floor.

When Mason awoke, Trish was lying beside him. Both of them were naked, and he could smell the delicious musk of her body. He closed his eyes and laid his head back against the pillow, replaying the night. Strictly speaking, he hadn’t betrayed Ava, but there was little doubt that she would scratch his eyes out if she were ever to see him lying in bed with a naked woman. Mason loved Ava, but he also accepted the fact that he was imperfect. In the end, Trish had helped him to sleep better than he had in weeks, and for that, he was thankful.

Sensing that he was awake, she leaned over and kissed his shoulder.

“Good morning, cowboy,” she said.

He rolled over and kissed her softly. The situation wasn’t her fault, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to make her feel unappreciated.

“Morning.”

“That was nice.”

“Yeah, it was.” He smiled and touched her face. “You’re very beautiful, Trish.”

“You’re not so bad yourself, Marshal.”

He flopped back on the pillow.

“You’re feeling guilty,” she said. “Don’t.”

“I’m good.”

She placed a hand on his chest.

“You kept your vows.”

He turned back to her and smiled.

“More or less.”

She leaned in and nibbled his ear.

“More or less.”

Mason turned his F150 west on Pinckney Street. Trish sat beside him, and Bowie rode in the back. It was still early enough that most of what remained of Chester was still asleep in their beds.

“How long has your sister been out of touch?” he asked.

“She rode into town on her bicycle last week to pick up a few things. That’s the last time I saw her.”

“Is there someone who might have needed her attention? A husband? Kids?”

“No. She lives alone in a small house that our mom left us.”

“Could she have met a man?”

Trish shook her head.

“Tracy’s always been sort of a wallflower. I can’t imagine anything like that happening so quickly.”

They drove past a pack of wild dogs fighting over a cadaver.

“Let’s hope those mongrels didn’t give her trouble when she was riding home.”

Trish stared out at the animals, and they stared back.

“I read there were eighty-five million dogs in the US,” she said. “That means they outnumber us now, something like ten to one.”

Mason gestured back toward Bowie.

“They’re not all bad.”

“No, of course not,” she said, glancing back at Bowie. “Has he been with you a long time?”

“Since the beginning.”

She nodded, not asking what he meant by that.

“The house is up ahead on the left,” she said, pointing. “There.”

Mason pulled into the dirt driveway but stopped well away from the small wood house. A black Harley-Davidson motorcycle was parked up near the porch.

“I’m guessing that’s not the bike you were talking about.”

“No,” she answered, her voice trembling.

“All right. Stay here while I check it out.”

As he started to open the door, she reached over and put her hand on his arm.

“Be careful, Marshal.”

He climbed out and motioned for Bowie to join him. The house was dark and quiet. The front windows were slightly open, probably to get a little airflow into the home. Spring was getting into full swing, and it could get stuffy by midday.

“Go check around back,” he said, gesturing for Bowie to circle the house.

The dog took off, eager to stretch its legs and maybe find something worthy of an early morning adventure.

Mason stepped up onto the porch and glanced in through one of the partially open windows. A fat man with a thick white beard and dressed in a red union suit lay on the couch, snoring. He looked like Santa might after a particularly rough night of hitting the hooch. Mason didn’t see anyone else in the living room.

Bowie came around from the other side of the house, and Mason motioned for him to stay put. The dog stopped and looked around, obviously uncertain of the situation.

Mason bumped the screen door with his foot a few times, watching to see what the man on the couch would do.

Santa scratched his balls, stretched, and sat up, yawning.

“Who the hell?” he mumbled, reaching down between the couch cushions to retrieve a large revolver. He stood up and stumbled toward the door.

Mason stepped back off the porch and put his hand on his Supergrade.

The door swung open, and Santa stared out through the screen door.

“What do you want?” he said, licking something dry and crusty off his lips.

“I’m a Deputy Marshal. Step out on the porch.”

Santa took a moment to consider his next move.

Mason gripped the Supergrade but said nothing more.

The big man finally stepped out, the pistol hanging loosely in his left hand. He had a heavy black boot on one foot, but the other was completely bare.

“Did I do somethin’ wrong, Marshal?”

“I don’t know yet. But if that gun comes up, it’ll be the last thing you ever do. Are we clear?”

He shrugged. “I ain’t got no reason to shoot you. Not unless you’re gonna try to pin somethin’ on me I didn’t do.”

“I’m looking for the young woman who lives here.”

“Ain’t nobody lives here anymore. I stopped to find some grub and a bed, and found the place empty. You got my God’s honest word on it.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Just since dark. That’s it. I ain’t squattin’ or nothin’.”

Mason thought for a moment.

“All right. Here’s what we’re going to do. First, you’re going to set the pistol down on the porch, and then you and I are going inside to take a look around. You okay with that?”

Santa hesitated. “Sure thing, Marshal. I got nothin’ to hide.” He bent over and set the revolver on the porch, sliding it away with his bare foot. “See, Marshal, I ain’t gonna be no trouble.”

Mason stepped up on the porch and the two of them went inside with Santa leading the way. Mason left the screen door propped open in case Bowie was needed. The home was quite small, consisting of a living room, eat-in kitchen, and a hallway that led off to a bathroom and bedroom. A back door was at the far side of the kitchen. There was enough light coming in through the windows that Mason was reasonably sure that no one was hiding in the living room or kitchen. The house was a bit messy, but there weren’t any obvious signs of a struggle.

“She ain’t here. You wanna check the bedroom and crapper too?”

Never moving his hand from the Supergrade, he nodded and motioned for the big man to lead the way. They walked down the small hallway and Mason peered into the bathroom. It was empty. Next came the bedroom. It probably only measured twelve feet on a side and contained a double bed, a dresser, a small nightstand, and a closet with an accordion style door. The covers were pulled up on the bed, not neatly by any means, but some effort had been made to put it back together.

“I told you,” he said with a big smile, “ain’t nobody here but me.”

Mason squeezed by the big man and walked around the room. Nothing obvious stood out. Turning, so that he could keep one eye on Santa, he swung open the closet. Other than some clothes hanging up and a few shoes on the floor, it too was empty. Mason started back toward the door when something occurred to him. He turned back around and gave the covers a quick tug. There, in the center of the bed was a fresh bloodstain, still wet in the middle.

Before he could turn back around, Santa barreled into him, slamming Mason into the bedroom wall. His head punched through the sheetrock, but his right shoulder wasn’t as lucky as it pounded against a wooden stud. He screamed as his shoulder popped out of joint. Before Mason could pull free of the wall, Santa hit him with a solid punch behind his ear. His legs buckled, and he fell to his knees.

The world started to go black as Mason struggled to get his arm working well enough to draw his pistol. The big man swung his foot back, but before he could kick it forward, something grabbed him from behind.

Santa let out a thunderous shout as Bowie clamped down on his calf.

“Get offa me!” he yelled, hopping on his one free leg.

Bowie snarled and shook his leg from side to side, ripping muscle away from bone.

Santa screamed in pain, windmilling his arms as he fought desperately to keep his balance.

Bowie jerked him back toward the door, and despite his best efforts, the three hundred pound man fell flat on his back. In the time it took for him to raise his hands, Bowie was on him, first biting Santa in the groin, and then moving up to his face.

Mason heard the big man’s screams but made no effort to call off Bowie. Instead, he struggled to his feet, his head finally clearing enough to enable him to remain standing. He took a deep breath, tears of pain rolling down his face, and slammed his shoulder against the wall. The ball went back into the socket, and almost immediately, his arm became usable again, albeit sore as all hell.

When he turned back around, Bowie stood looking up at him, drops of blood dripping from the fur around his mouth. Santa lay dead behind him, the man’s throat ripped out. Mason leaned back against the wall and slowly lowered himself to sit on the floor. Bowie immediately came over and lay across his lap.

“That definitely did not go as planned,” he said, grimacing.

Bowie glanced over at the dead man as if to argue the point.

Mason quickly checked the dog for any injuries. The cut on Bowie’s leg that he had suffered the previous week at the hands of a few backwoods cannibals was still tightly sutured.

“I think you fared better than I did,” he said, touching the tender spot behind his own ear.

Bowie smacked his lips together a few times.

“Come on,” he said, struggling to get to his feet. “Let’s see what’s what around here.”

They walked through the house a second time, looking in every cabinet and closet big enough to hide a woman. Nothing. Tracy was nowhere to be found.

“If she’s here, she’s got to be outside somewhere, which means she’s probably dead and buried.”

They went through the back door to stand on a small cement slab. The yard was overgrown with weeds, and there was an old lawnmower and a few odd tractor parts scattered about. At the back corner was a grass-covered mound that stood about three feet above ground level. Mason walked toward it, slowly getting his strength back. As he got closer, he saw that there were pullout doors on one side of the small hill. It was an old-time storm shelter.

Bowie sniffed the doors and began to growl. The handles were tied shut from the outside with baling wire. Mason untwisted the wire and swung open the door, prepared to find the worst. To his surprise, a young woman was seated inside on a small cot. She was naked, except for a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. One of her eyes was swollen shut, and streaks of dried blood were smeared on her thighs.

“Tracy?”

She scrambled away from him, curling into a small ball in the corner of the underground room.