Run (15 page)

He put his pool cue up in the rack, standing it next to the others, all lined up like steadfast wooden and aluminum soldiers, and stepped into the bar area.  He waved goodnight to Casey, who nodded but didn’t stop polishing his bar.

John went to the front door, waving to a few people he knew in the bar, and then opened it to leave.

He almost bumped into the people entering: two men, two women.  One man and one woman were laughing, apparently having a good night.  The other two - a black woman and a stern older man - didn’t laugh.  John had to suppress a shudder as he stepped past them.  The older man’s eyes quickly roved up and down, taking in John’s appearance in an instant, before the party moved into the bar.  The look unnerved him, and yet he seemed to have seen that look before.

He shrugged internally and stepped out of the bar.  When he got in his Pathfinder, he realized what the look had meant.

He was casing me, thought John.  He had seen that look, again in special forces training.  How to rapidly assess a potential threat, noting bulges in clothing, physical prowess, and a host of other factors that could let a skilled observer know in a matter of seconds what dangers another person represented.

Why would he look like that?

Almost, he went back into the bar.  To introduce himself, perhaps, and maybe get a bit of information from the man.

Almost.  But instead he put his car into gear, and drove away.

DOM#67A

LOSTON, COLORADO

AD 1999

2:00 AM SUNDAY MORNING

Casey wanted to close up; wanted to go home and crawl into bed for five hours before coming back to get the bar ready for the Sunday lunch rush.  The bar wasn’t a restaurant or even a grill, but Casey noticed a lot of people that came in to ask if he had anything to eat stayed for a drink or two, so he had started cooking burgers and sandwiches for some of his customers.  It made a bit more work, and a slightly higher amount of paperwork to be filled out each year for the state health commission, but it more than paid for itself in extra profits.  So now he had to get the bar opened earlier than he used to, and Sunday was a good business day on top of that.  He wanted to rest up for it.

Unfortunately, one small group of people remained.  They had come in early, and stayed the entire evening, though they’d only purchased one round of drinks each, and as far as Casey could see, those drinks were still full.  He had thought more than once over the evening that they might be waiting for him to be alone - as he was now - to rob him. 

He dismissed the thought, though.  He’d been robbed twice, and both times it had been people with a certain frightened, jittery look.  These people didn’t have that look.  They sat utterly calm, like a deep pool of water on a still summer day. 

At the same time, though, it occurred to Casey that even calm waters had been known to hide sharks.

Time to close up, he decided.  He’d get rid of his guests - nicely, of course, but firmly - and go home for forty winks.  Maybe for forty thousand.  He told himself again that he wasn’t worried, but he put his hand below the bar, where a shotgun - a sawed-off double barrelful of lead - hung on a spring-pivot.  In a split-second he could aim and shoot it right through the bar, if necessary.  Anything he pointed at, he would hit.  And anything he hit would go down and stay down.

Tal Johnson, Loston’s sheriff, had given Casey the shotgun after the second robbery attempt.  He’d handed it over, whispering, "I never saw this," when Casey got out of the hospital, where he had recuperated from a shot that glanced across his clavicle, missing his neck and head by inches.

Casey had laughed at the melodrama at the time, enjoying the sheriff’s obvious pleasure at Loston’s only chance to engage in vigilante cloak and dagger stuff.  But now he was glad to have the gun. 

"Folks," he said, making sure his voice was chipper, cheery, the last kind of voice in the world you’d want to hear angry.  "We’re closing up, I’m afraid."

Surprisingly, the answer to his statement came from the oldest of the group, a late middle-aged man who’d done nothing but case the bar out the whole time they’d been there.  It seemed like he was looking for something.  Or someone.  Casey hoped it wasn’t him, as the man wore a scowl more dark and impenetrable than the darkest night in the mountains. 

That was why it was a bit of a shock when the man cracked a wide smile and said, "Oh, it’s late.  Terribly sorry, friend.  We’ve been...traveling.  It felt good just to sit down a while, and I guess we lost track of the time in your wonderful place here."

Casey smiled.  His hand remained on the gun, but he was as susceptible to flattery as any proud parent.  "Thanks for the compliment.  She’s a great place."

"Indeed," said the man.  He stood, and the others followed suit.  He walked to the bar and his hand went to an inner pocket. 

Casey tensed, but the man withdrew a billfold, nothing more. 

"How much do we owe you?"

"Four drinks, twelve dollars."

The man held out a twenty.  "Here you go.  If you can tell us of a good motel around here, you can keep the change."

Casey shook his head.  "Sorry, I’ll have to give you eight back.  Loston doesn’t get many tourists.  Hardly any new move-ins, either.  The nearest motel’s about three hours west of here."

"Oh."  The man’s expression fell and Casey felt sorry for him.  Driving in the middle of the night wasn’t any fun after a long day of traveling.

"Sorry, friend," said Casey.  He took the twenty and made change one-handed, a move he’d practiced many times.  He knew it looked smooth and that the four watching would be unaware he kept his right hand below the bar.  Unless they were up to no good, in which case the fear that he had something down there might keep them in line.

He handed the man his change.  The man took it, laying the five down on the bar in front of Casey.  "Well, thanks anyway."  He pocketed the remaining three and then pulled out a gun. 

Casey would have shot him, would have punched a hole the size of a serving tray right through the man, except the guy moved so smoothly.  He didn’t yank his gun out of a holster, trembling, as any other gunman might have done.  He
drew
it out, not like a quick-draw, but like he was languidly drawing up water from a fresh artesian well.  So Casey didn’t react nervously, either, automatically pulling the trigger and blowing the guy straight to hell in two or more pieces.  The guy
flowed
, and Casey was stuck somewhere between awe and surprise during the half a second he could have done something.  Then the moment was gone and the man who stared at him from behind a gun was in charge, and Casey knew it.

"I know you have a gun under there," said the man.  "If you so much as twitch I’ll pull this trigger and your brain will be splattered into pieces too small for you to ever come back."

Casey knew then that the guy was insane.  His three friends had pulled weapons during the short diatribe, too, all three taking them out with that same easy, almost casual style. 

Casey was outgunned, outnumbered, out of luck.  He was also supremely glad he had not tried to shoot earlier.  From the look of these three, he had little doubt that such a move would have ended in his death.  These people were dangerous, and his only hope lay in cooperating and praying that whatever they wanted took them away quickly.

"I’m taking my hand off the trigger," he said.  His voice remained calm, well-modulated.  Keep them happy, he thought.  Pretend nothing is wrong, and live to see tomorrow.

"Slowly!" barked the other guy, a younger, good-looking fellow.

Casey moved slowly.  "Thought you might be looking for something," he said as he withdrew his hand, centimeter by centimeter, from below the bar.

"Somebody," said the blonde girl.

"Looks like you found him," said Casey, trying to sound calm, as though this sort of thing happened every day.  Stay cool, stay calm, and stay alive, he thought.

The older man laughed.  The sound pierced Casey’s ears like needles wrapped in barbed wire.  "Not yet, my friend," said the man through his laughter.  "We haven’t found whom we seek."  He leaned in, then, and Casey stared into twin pools of hell masquerading as human eyes.  "Not yet.  But we will. 

"With God’s help and yours, we will."

DOM#67A

LOSTON, COLORADO

AD 1999

7:00 PM SUNDAY

** CONTACT MADE – SERIES SEVEN/A-TYPE **

When the door opened, John’s breath caught in his throat. 

He remembered once at a Mexican restaurant he’d gotten a bit overzealous with the chips and salsa, swallowing a large piece of tortilla that went down sideways.  It had jammed in his throat, partially blocking his trachea and making it hard to breathe.  Annie whacked him on the back a few times, then tried the Heimlich.  Neither worked.  He wasn’t in any real danger of asphyxiation, because he could breathe around the chip, but the pain was excruciating, and breathing definitely
was
a chore.  They’d gone to one of the two doctors who practiced in Loston, making an emergency house call, but the chip had popped back up as they pulled into his driveway.

John hadn’t been eating chips - hadn’t been
near
Mexican food since Annie died – but he had similar respiratory problems when he saw Fran as he had that night in Los Toros.

He dropped the bouquet he was holding, a small mass of tousled mountain flowers that seemed all the more beautiful for their chaotic arrangement.  He knelt to gather them up again, and could not take his eyes off her, though it meant he had to crane his neck upward to see her.

She wore a white shirt and blue jeans, simple clothing that nonetheless draped her like it was tailored.  She was slim, but not overly so.  She had the look, not of a bulimic heroin addict, which John saw so many of the girls in his classes struggling to achieve, but rather the appearance of a truly healthy person.  One who glows from without with physical well-being and from within with spiritual peace. 

Annie had always looked like that.

The only ornamentation she had was a gold bracelet that hung loosely from her wrist.  It was completely unnecessary, in John’s opinion, for no mere gold could match the glow of her eyes.

"Are you trying to hypnotize me?" she asked after a moment, and John’s face went red as he realized how openly he had been staring.

"No," he said.  "No, I...uh...."  His brain completed the perfect moment by deciding now would be a good time to step out to lunch.

"It’s John, right?"

Again, John’s jaw pumped up and down for a moment before anything resembling speech emerged.  "Yeah."

She smiled, a laughing, playful grin that invited instead of mocking.  "Come on in." 

She twisted sideways, but didn’t move out of the doorframe, effectively forcing John to get close to her as he entered.  He sensed that it wasn’t a calculated move, designed to either seduce him or put him off, but was rather the action of a generous person whose personal space is completely inclusive of everyone around. 

He noted an economy in her movements, too, a like a professional dancer, someone so in tune with her body that personal awareness became instinct.  Her feet were placed just so, her body lithe and slightly leaning in the direction she would move, each placement perfect and yet totally unrehearsed.

Again, though she looked nothing like her, John was struck by Fran’s resemblance to his Annie.

He moved past her, trying not to look too awkward as he passed close by her and then entered her house.  Boxes sat everywhere in the small living room, most of them open but unpacked.  The place was furnished, though, filled with comfortable chairs and soft lighting. 

And books. 
They
were unpacked, lining the walls, some on partially constructed shelves, some just lined up on the floor like silent guardians of literacy.  John could not recall ever seeing so many volumes in one room before, unless it was in a library.  He loved to read, himself, but his own accumulation of literature was dwarfed by Fran's collection.

Fran noticed his gaze.  "Sorry about the mess.  I actually got here two days ago, but I haven’t done much.  Just slept."  She swept her hair back, a nervous move that conveyed her embarrassment at this fact.  "Not really like me." 

She seemed mortified by the apparent laziness such a fact conveyed, John noted.  Good woman, he thought.  She's a hard worker, and wants it to show. 

Then he thought, That's the kind of woman I'd like to marry. 

The thought bounced around in his cortex for a long second before he realized its significance.  Whoa, cowboy, he thought.  Let's get through the date before planning the wedding.

Fran changed the subject, saying, "If you can wait just a second, I’ve got to go change."

"You look fine to me."  The words blurted out of him before he had time to think about their appropriateness.  He blushed.  This wasn’t like him. 

Fran smiled, looking sincerely grateful.  "Thanks.  But I would like to look a bit better for my favorite cousin’s favorite friend who’s taking time out of a busy schedule to be my new favorite tour guide." 

John didn’t know what to say to that, really, his brain having decided not only to go to lunch but also to stop for a movie and perhaps spend the night in a nice hotel somewhere.  Fran saved him from revealing his sudden lack of brain function, though, by motioning to the flowers.

"Did you pick those yourself?"

"Yeah," said John.  He was down to monosyllabic responses, he noted.  Articulation and anything resembling a vocabulary were apparently at the movies with his brain.  "They’re for you."

"Thank you, Johnny."  John jumped a bit at that, or rather, not so much jumped, actually, as minutely twitched.  A twinge.  She noticed.  "Are you all right?"

He refrained from saying the first word to pop into his head, which was "Yeah," nodding instead.  "I just...someone else used to call me that."

"Sorry.  I’ll call you John."

"No, it’s okay.  You can call me Johnny."

He smiled at her.  She smiled back, then took the flowers and put them in a vase that had been on the floor, stuffed with bunches of newspapers.  Then she disappeared down the hall, stepping into one of the rooms.