The Deputy (12 page)

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.