by Schow, Ryan
“Are you going to be in class next week?” Faith looked up and asked Ludmila. The woman wasn’t in great shape, but being older and heavyset, she needed the kind of services Faith offered.
“I am,” she said. “My daughter, too, if I can pull her off that stupid computer.”
Faith laughed. “Good luck with that. Just remember, when she’s gone, you’ll miss her like crazy.”
“You keep saying that,” Ludmila said, “but I keep having a hard time believing you.”
“Ever since Leighton went away to school…” Faith started to say. She stopped herself with a sad smile.
With Leighton gone, Faith was suffering the empty nest syndrome. Then again, Colt was, too. He missed his daughters and his son, and though Colt knew a dog wouldn’t fill that hole, he thought they could try anyway.
Faith paid the woman in cash while Colt picked up Roscoe. His ears were impossibly long, his face so sweet, and those big eyes had that wet, satisfied look.
“They’re already bonding,” Ludmila said with a smile. “This is a good match. Just make sure he shares little Roscoe with you.”
They drove to the pet store with Roscoe sitting in the bench seat next to them. At eight weeks old, this little hound dog was already acclimating to life outside the pen. Faith stayed with him in the truck while Colt went inside and bought food and water bowls, doggie bags, and a leash. Then he remembered Faith telling him to get it a bed, so he went back and got a big doggie bed.
“That’s too big,” she said.
“He’ll grow into it, but when he can jump onto our bed, he’s going to want to sleep with us, I can feel it.”
“That dog will never be able to jump,” she laughed.
When they turned into the driveway, Colt said, “Welcome to Palace de McDaniel. Home of the…what the hell?”
At the top of the driveway, he slowed to a stop, his eyes zeroed in on the garden.
“Oh no,” Faith said under her breath.
“Get him on his leash,” Colt said as he got out of the truck.
He walked over to his garden, saw all his perfect, cared-for plants trampled. Most of the future crop was stomped flat, the stalks were broken, the leaves shredded underfoot. The vegetable plants that weren’t trampled had been pulled out by the root and tossed aside like garbage.
This was their food, their livelihood!
The way his heart began to beat like it had been juiced with electricity, then flooded with too much adrenaline, he knew it would explode if he didn’t offload some of the pressure first. Deep down, his old self was rearing to go, begging to be set free. He glanced down the hill at Vitaliy’s place and whatever rage he felt in his heart just moments ago more than doubled.
The beast inside him was suddenly front and center. It was at the cage doors, rattling the bars, frothing at the mouth, stomping its feet.
Colt turned back to the garden, saw the shovel staked in the middle of the rows. On the top of the handle, propped up as an insult and a calling card, was his favorite hat.
Inside, the beast popped its knuckles, rolled its neck. Colt looked down the hill, at the house tucked into overgrown shrubbery, and he saw red.
He started to walk down there, and Faith said, “No, wait!”
She sat Roscoe back into the truck, shut the door, then ran into the house. She was in and out in no time. Breathless, she handed him her Smith & Wesson.
“The magazine’s full,” she said, “and there’s one in the chamber.”
He nodded, wordless, his eyes wild, his cheeks beet red.
“If he makes you do it,” she said, “kill him.”
He felt something in his eyes clear as he came back to reality. He glanced down at his wife’s gun, then he looked up at Faith. The beast was startled still, holding its breath.
The rage returned like thunder as he turned and walked down the gravel driveway. He crossed the road, trekked down Vitaliy’s driveway, walking past the Jeep he’d seen at the Kroger, and up onto the porch. All the other vehicles were gone, which was just as well. To him, this meant no witnesses. He could kill whoever was there, he thought to himself. Eventually, he could kill them all.
The beast was flexing its chest, its traps juiced. He was one-hundred percent lean muscle and bursting at the seams with hostility.
Colt didn’t knock on the door—he punched it three times, skinning his knuckles. The beast was grinning now, no longer shaking the cage, just waiting to assume control.
A female voice on the other side of the door said, “Go away.”
“Open this door or I’m going to kick the damn thing off its hinges!” He racked the slide and saw the round Faith had promised was there, stepped back, aimed at the deadbolt.
On the other side of the door, he heard the girl throwing the locks. He lowered the barrel, but kept the gun ready, just in case.
When she opened the door, he saw she’d been run through pretty good. A black eye, pulled hair, split lip.
“What the hell happened to you?”
“I’m a casualty of my own bad decisions.”
The beast sagged with disappointment inside him. Colt felt some of that anger pulling back, dissipating.
“So this was your fault then?” he asked, motioning to her injuries.
“I always choose the worst guys.”
Her shirt was mostly buttoned, but two of the buttons were missing, the threads sticking up like half the shirt had been torn open.
She glanced down at his gun. “You want to come inside? I was about to put myself back together.”
“What’s your scumbag boyfriend’s name?”
“Keaton Dodd,” she said, pulling her hair back. She had pinkish blond hair, a bad dye job, and tattoos on her neck—flowers, several birds, and a decorative skull.
“I’m Trixie Millsap, by the way.”
She extended her hand—five fingers, two broken nails, a pair of silver rings on her thumb, and a single ring on her forefinger. When Colt refused to take it, she withdrew like it was no big deal.
“Why did Keaton trample my garden?” he asked.
“You shot his watermelon.”
“Why would he think that?” he asked, less aggressive.
“It was obvious.”
Barefoot, wearing short-shorts that hugged her butt perfectly, she sauntered back to the bedroom, undid the remaining buttons on her shirt, then picked up a different top off the bed. He didn’t mean to, but when she shrugged off her shirt and bent over to lay it on the bed, he saw the pale bottoms of her breasts hanging heavy.
Colt quickly glanced away, but then he looked back and caught sight of the bruising on her back and ribs. Some of the skin was black and blue while other parts were faded with the yellow and green evidence of continued abuse.
He tried to make himself look away, but he couldn’t do it. It wasn’t because she was in a state of undress, or even halfway pretty, it was because a man shouldn’t abuse a woman. But there she was, standing before him like a whipped dog.
Seeing the state of her only intensified his hatred for Keaton Dodd. When she turned and started walking toward him, he drew a sharp breath and froze.
“I used to be a dancer, so don’t feel bad looking at them,” she said about her breasts.
She pulled the tank top over her head, snugged it tight against her stomach, then picked up a pack of smokes and shook out a single cigarette.
She offered him the pack, but he said, “No, thank you.”
Tilting her head sideways, half her hair cut nearly to the scalp, she lit her cancer stick then stood up tall and blew out a stream of smoke.
“I didn’t do bottomless, though, when I was dancing. Most of those girls end up as hookers, coke heads, or eventual burnouts. A few make it to porn, but even then…”
“Why did you do it at all?” he asked.
“I liked the attention. I told people I was putting myself through college because it was a cute thing to say once upon a time. Then I said I had a daughter I was p
utting through high school. That was hot, but the guys kept asking if my daughter was up for a mother/daughter duo, and that was just gross to me.”
“Did you have a daughter?” he asked.
Ignoring the question, she said, “Keaton came in and he was sweet. He promised to take care of me. Now, here I am, wearing my blood like it’s lipstick.” Her eyes glossed over with unshed tears. She turned away, unable to look at him. “I suppose I’m a cliché, the worst kind.”
“That’s not true.”
“Average small-town girl with big dreams and a kid gets on a bus headed for the big city. She gets there, falls flat on her face, ends up a hopeless shell of herself.”
“At least you went after your dreams,” he said, oddly unnerved by the turn of events. “That’s more than some people.”
She took another drag from her cigarette, blew out the smoke, then turned and looked at him. A tear skimmed her cheek. With her cigarette in hand, she flicked the tear away like it was stray ash rather than an admission of years of sorrow.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Colt McDaniel.”
Looking right at him, her pain naked, her fear on display, she said, “He wants to kill you, Colt.”
“I want to kill him.”
“Is that what you came here to do?” she asked, motioning to the gun in his hand. Her fingernail polish was a muted purple and chipped.
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“I hope you do,” she said. “But he’s out for the night. Went to his boyfriend’s place with the others.”
Colt’s jaw dropped, but then he closed his mouth and swallowed.
“It’s not like that,” she laughed. She made a circle of her smoking hand, then pushed the index finger of her other hand in and out to simulate sex. “They’re not homos or anything, not that I care. It’s different. When Diesel calls, everyone comes.”
“Who’s Diesel?” he asked, sliding the weapon into the back of his jeans.
“Head of the Hayseed Rebellion and a real son of a bitch.”
He felt himself freeze up. Astounded, he asked, “That’s who you’re with?”
“I’m with Keaton, Keaton’s with Diesel, Diesel’s HR for all intents and purposes.”
“So, you’re innocent then?”
“I’m not innocent of anything, Colt McDaniel. Do you want to have sex? I have time.”
“No.”
“‘Course not. I saw your wife, the blondie. Is she a natural blonde?”
“What?”
“Does the carpet match the drapes? Or has she got hardwood floors down there? You know, waxed and smooth, nothing but bare skin?”
He frowned in disgust, then turned and went for the front door. He stopped himself from leaving, then thought about what he was going to say next. “If I put a bullet in his head, what will you do?”
“Shack up with one of his friends,” she said.
He turned around. “Just like that?”
“I’m not going back to dancing. I promised myself I’d stop doing that. It’s degrading to me as a woman, and I’m tired of feeling like a piece of shit in everything I do in life.”
“And doing this—being with these guys—how is that any better?”
She laughed then said, “Look at how clean and judgmental you are.”
Shaking his head, he turned and walked out, resisting the urge to slam the door behind him. Still pissed off, all that anger stored inside him, fueling the beast, he stalked back up to the house. One thing was for sure, if Keaton had been there, Colt would have killed him.
When he got up to the house, Faith was there waiting. Colt glanced back to Vitaliy’s place. Through the brush, he saw Trixie standing on the porch, short shorts, tank top pulled tight against her bosom. Faith saw it, too.
“I take it he wasn’t there?” she asked.
“His name is Keaton Dodd, and he beat the crap out of his girlfriend, Trixie Millsap.”
“You want to save her?” Faith asked, sarcastic and cold.
He scoffed at the comment. “Hardly.”
“I hate what he did to our garden, but I have to admit, I kind of like this side of you.”
“Yeah? Well, I don’t. And I wish you’d quit trying to coax it out of me.”
He breezed past her, walked inside the house, put the gun away, and splashed cold water on his face. He patted himself dry, then looked down and saw Roscoe looking up at him.
Seeing their new puppy pushed the need for war away, allowed the tension inside him to ease up. He sat Indian-style on the floor, pulled the dog near him, then started to scratch the hound’s side and behind his ears.
Roscoe turned over, gave up his belly, then just looked at Colt. “Your dad almost made a mistake today,” he told the pup.
But had he?
If he would have killed Keaton, would that really have been a mistake? He reasoned it would not have been. Keaton was the tree Colt could cut down in the forest, the one no one would know about.
Looking at Roscoe, he asked, “If a dead man fell in the forest, would anyone hear him?”
The dog looked away, then back up at him.
Of course, if he killed Keaton, he’d have to kill Trixie, too. No witnesses. But could he do that? She wasn’t a good person, but she’d done nothing to him or Faith. Besides, he didn’t want any more weight on his conscience.
His karmic debt was already enormous.
Chapter Twelve
Sheriff Lance Garrity
The day started bad and looked like it was about to get worse. A chubby woman he didn’t know walked into his office and said, “You’re the sheriff?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, standing to greet her. “I’m Sheriff Lance Garrity. What can I do for you?”
“There’s a bunch a screamin’ next door. Day and night, a guy screams, like he’s being beaten by her.”
Holding up his hands, he said, “Hold on a second, tap the breaks, take a breath. Let’s do this one detail at a time, starting with your name.”
“Maryanne Jackson. I swear, she’s abusing him. I hear her yelling, and I hear him trying to talk her down, but that woman is a maniac!”
“Why are they yelling?” Garrity asked.
“She poisoned his chickens.”
“Why do you think she poisoned the chickens?”
“I seen her!”
Garrity checked his watch, then said, “Do you have proof?”
She pointed to her eyes. “These are your proof!”
“Have you thought about setting up a video camera? Maybe get this on film? Because as long as the camera is situated on your property, like a security system, then it can be used as evidence if it happens to capture something in her backyard.”
“Some folks aren’t made of greenbacks,” she barked. “Besides, I told that two-bit tramp if she comes near me, I’m gonna cut her. So now she’s yelling at me.”
“Really?”
“A good woman don’t talk to others the way she does, always using the f-word at full volume.”
“And?”
“She told me to stuff myself up my own…well, up my own backside.”
He closed his eyes, rubbed his temples. He opened his eyes and looked directly at her. Forcing a smile, he said, “I can’t do anything unless you have evidence, and a few expired chickens isn’t the proof I need to get the judge to issue a warrant.”
“So, what do I need?”
“I told you to buy a surveillance camera.”
“And I told you I ain’t got the funds for that sort of thing,” she crowed.
He leaned sideways, pulled out his wallet, then handed her a twenty. She took it in her meaty fist.
Then, shaking it at him, she said, “This ain’t gonna get me nowhere.”
He drew a deep breath, released it audibly. He withdrew another twenty and said, “You catch her on videotape doing something illegal, I’ll cuff her and perp-walk her past your house extra slow.”
She snatched up the s
econd bill and said, “What if I find a good one for cheaper than forty bucks?”
He assumed she was talking about a camera. “Then do something nice for yourself with the change.”
“Gallon of gasoline, a few matches, and that hussy on my lawn. That would make me happy.”
He went back to checking his emails, but not before saying, “You can’t go burning your neighbors to death because they use curse words and have a bad attitude.”
“Says who?” she asked, walking out like she was getting away with murder.
“The law, Mrs. Jackson. The law says you can’t do that.”
She stopped in the doorway, turned, and said, “Anything I don’t say won’t be used against me in a court of law. And it’s Miss Jackson.”
He looked up and grinned. “If anyone asks, don’t tell them where you got the forty bucks.”
As the door started to shut, a hand caught it, then Colt McDaniel walked into the station and said, “If you have time, I want to file a complaint.”
Sitting up, he asked, “Against who?”
“You know who.”
“What’d he do this time?”
“Tore apart my garden, left me my hat in the middle of it.”
Looking up, he saw Colt wearing the hat he’d described earlier as having been stolen. “Am I your first stop?”
“I went to see him first, but he was gone. I talked to his ex-stripper girlfriend instead.”
“What did she have to say?”
“What do you tell a girl with two black eyes?” Colt asked.
Garrity frowned, but then he said, “Nothing, she’s been told twice already.”
“Yeah, well, this girl’s been told once, and I’m afraid he’s going to tell her what’s what into an early grave,” Colt said. “They’re Hayseed Rebellion, by the way.”
“An offshoot?”
“No, not an offshoot. This is the real deal. They all answer to a guy named Diesel. When he calls, apparently everyone comes.”
“Interesting,” Garrity said, dread unfurling within him. It was the name that left him flat-footed. This was Walker’s buddy, his executioner. And now that name was circulating through town. “You know I’ve been out there already. To Vitaliy’s place.”
