by Nya Rawlyns
He shrugged. “Damned if I know. Marcus and me run into a brick wall every time we get close to talking about him. She clams up, like a kid who’s afraid of something would. But with Petilune, that’s not the vibe I’m getting.” He tipped Becca’s chin up. “Maybe she won’t talk to us old fogies, but she might talk to you. Woman to woman. I really doubt Janice has had that talk with her, if you catch my drift.”
“Oh Josh, it’s called sex, and yeah, I doubt the poor kid has a clue.”
He could see Becca mentally rolling up her sleeves. If he’d had any qualms about bringing Petilune to stay on the ranch, they’d been dispersed. The girl was in good hands.
As he was leaving he called back, “She’s wearing all she’s got, sis. Want me to pick anything up in town?”
“Nah, she and I are near the same size.” Becca grimaced. “I’m fatter, but I can find something in the trunk upstairs that will do for now.”
“You’re not fat. You’re... poofy.”
“Fuck you.” She made a rude gesture, then shouted, “Don’t forget to ask.”
“I will. Just remember, it’s not a date.”
“It is if you want to get laid, bro.”
Her laughter followed him as he drove down the lane.
****
Josh settled across the desk from his old acquaintance. Ted Sorenson tilted back his chair and rocked as they looked each other over. Sorenson had been less than supportive when Josh had finally owned up to being gay. They hadn’t been exactly close friends, but in a small community college with only twenty or so kids going through the law enforcement and corrections program at the time, it seemed natural to hang out together. Losing Ted’s friendship had acted to split the group, causing tension.
The last few months hadn’t been pleasant, for any of them. The experience had been one of the reasons why Josh had decided to go the military route rather than try for a local position. He never regretted that decision, even now.
On the way over, he’d practiced how to approach asking for information. If it was an active investigation, he wasn’t entitled to anything other than we’re working on it with a very strong subtext of butt out. He appreciated that and was prepared for this to be a short and probably unproductive interview.
When Sorenson folded his arms over his massive chest, and said, “Tell me what you know, Foxglove,” a sharp thrill raced up and down his spine.
He took a breath, folded his hands on the desk and explained, “Not a lot more than what I told you on Sunday. However, after giving it some thought, I suspect those four are responsible for a lot, if not most, of the trouble we’re seeing around here lately, am I right?” Sorenson nodded and waited for Josh to continue. “Thing is, they don’t exactly fit the profile for the kind of nuisance activity that’s going on.” This was the tricky part, bringing up profiling. He and Ted had been sort of competitors in their psych classes, trying to outdo one another. Ted looked him over, giving him the flat cop eyes, but his fingers drumming on his arms gave away his interest.
He said, “Go on, tell me what you think.”
Josh decided to lay it out as best he could. “Last few years we’ve had troublemakers coming south from the rez. They were usually just passing through on their way to Denver or Cheyenne, doing the illegal drug and arms runs. They come through, flush with cash, then on the way back they’d hit the schools and some of the local watering holes. Thing is, we’re so spread out, that it makes it hard to handle that kind of a distribution network. But over time they worked out a system that’s been stable for a while.”
Sorenson nodded. “So far you aren’t wrong.”
Encouraged, Josh continued. “Seems like something like that ought to be easy to crack, but I know it’s not. We’re seeing problems move from the populated areas into the small towns and ranching districts. I suspect that there are new players poking holes in the distribution network, players who know the area better than the dealers up north.”
Sorenson asked, “You got a point somewhere in there?”
Sitting up straight, Josh said, “I think we got ourselves the beginning of a turf war. Whoever’s holding up the local drug network might be coming under some heat from those four guys I ran into on Sunday.”
Sorenson studied Josh long enough for him to feel antsy. “Interesting theory you got there, Foxglove. Not sure why you’re bringing it to me. Maybe you ought to be talking to the folks down in Cheyenne, see if one of their task forces might be interested.” He smirked. “We’re just blacktop jockeys handing out speeding tickets.”
The man made it clear the interview was over. Josh stood and held out his right hand. Sorenson looked at distastefully, but after a brief hesitation they shook. Josh thanked him for his time and left, feeling satisfied.
Very, very satisfied.
Sorenson might not have said anything specific, but his body language, the set to his mouth, how his eyes flickered and twitched when Josh got close to hitting the mark told him volumes. Yeah, the state cop was right, they were nothing more than glorified traffic enforcers, but out here, in the middle of nowhere Wyoming, they were also the only thing the drug task forces had in the way of eyes and ears on the ground.
At least Josh knew to keep his eyes open to possibilities. The thing he didn’t know, and it was getting more crucial every hour, was how that Kit Golden Eagle kid factored into all this.
With a groan Josh climbed into the truck and headed east toward the fairgrounds in Laramie.
Chapter Nine
The Visitor
His belly growling was just enough to keep Marcus from nodding off. With all the upset over the weekend, he’d neglected to look over his books, a task he usually reserved for Saturday nights when his loneliness threatened to bury him. There was nothing as fulfilling, or as dull, as columns of numbers and inventory to sort through, orders to process, and bills to organize for his part time accountant.
He made a point of writing HOLD in the margins next to the Foxglove account. Josh might not have ever gotten around to asking that favor, but he knew it was the reason for the big man to have hung around until closing time.
“Bet you never expected things to go down the way they did, cowboy.” The sound of his own voice echoed hollowly in the small room.
Marcus closed the ledger and set it next to a pile of folders. Polly’s girl, Suze, was scheduled to stop by, bring him dinner and pick up the end-of-month bookkeeping. Checking his watch, he realized it was getting late. When he heard the knock on the outer door, he grabbed the stack of accounting records and hustled to unlock the door.
“Sorry, Suze. Lost track of time.” He held up the armload of accounts. “You want to come in for a minute?”
“Nah, thanks, Mr. Colton. I’ve gotta run. Ma apologizes,” she held up a paper bag, “but it’s mostly leftovers from the picnic. Ribs and such.”
Marcus’ mouth watered as they exchanged food for store accounts. Grinning, he said, “It smells a treat, Suze. I’m so hungry, I was thinking of tearing my couch apart looking for loose change to hit the candy machine.” He nodded toward the rear of the store. “You be sure to tell your Ma how much I appreciate her thinking of me like this.”
The girl said, “I’ll tell her, but you know what she’ll say...” Together they intoned, “...don’t make no nevermind...”
He watched the teen stuff everything into a saddlebag on her Honda, then sedately pull out into what passed for rush hour in Centurion. The porch looked inviting. He was tempted to sit on the steps and watch traffic roll by while he ate his meal, but the weather had been changeable all day—warm enough to roll up your sleeves one minute, then the next you were hunting for a light jacket to ward off the chill.
With a sigh, he shut and locked the front door, turned off the overhead lights and made his way quickly to the rear of the store and the stairs leading to his private space. Once inside, he took a minute to survey the new furniture grouping, nodding with satisfaction that it looked much more inviting for
company.
What was even more satisfying was knowing Josh Foxglove seemed predisposed to provide that company. For a few precious hours, the man had filled the space in a way Marcus hadn’t known since he and Tommy had shared a life together. Nearly twenty years, come and gone in a flash. His head told him he’d been lucky to have had that long a time. His heart said different, it said it hadn’t been nearly long enough. It wasn’t the being alone that rankled so much, it was the lack of intimacy with another human being that ate at him constantly.
Sure, he was around people all day long. He went to services, volunteered at church dinners. He visited Polly’s, sat and shot the breeze with whoever invited him to sit and eat with them. He had the entire town for companionship. And that was good. He loved this place, loved being part of a community, but at night and on weekends there was an emptiness he just couldn’t manage to fill, no matter how hard he tried.
As Marcus set out the contents of the paper bag on the folding table, he wondered if he was destined to die up here in the loft, forever remembered as the town’s only bachelor shopkeeper. Hopefully that remembrance would be a fond one. He’d hate to have on his tombstone he’d been a crotchety old goat and good riddance.
Crouching down to find a plate and silverware for his meal, instead of using the Styrofoam box and plastic utensils Polly had included, he groaned as his knees cracked, the sound like a gunshot in the cavernous space. When he stood up, he surveyed the containers, his mind lost to wondering if he should wait and see if Josh showed up. Polly always sent enough to feed two people, a kindness his expanding middle could attest to. Since he didn’t have a refrigerator, he always felt obliged to scrape the box clean.
Muttering to himself, “Wouldn’t hurt to loosen the purse strings and buy a used fridge, asshole,” he looked toward the wall to see where he could install a dedicated outlet to handle the draw. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He held his breath and listened to the sound of his heartbeat thudding in his chest... that and the soft scuffle of footsteps, an intake of air, an exhale.
He wasn’t alone.
His cell phone chirruped. He had no idea where he’d left it. After four burps, it stopped. A pause, then another chirrup announced he had a message. Josh?
And still he held his breath. It’d been long enough he was getting light-headed. Finally giving in to his body’s scream for oxygen, he sucked air as a voice behind him whispered, “I ain’t gonna hurt you.”
The voice sounded young, young and male and scared. Marcus asked, “Can I turn around?” only to be met with silence. He echoed what the kid had said, “I won’t hurt you,” and risked untwisting his torso so he could see who his unwanted visitor was.
In the dim light, Marcus made out the shape of a teen, roughly his own height, with dark hair pulled off his face. The boy swayed, then placed a hand on the recliner chair back to steady himself.
Taking a stab in the dark, Marcus said, “You’re Kit, aren’t you.”
The boy nodded and moved closer to the table, the steps hesitant. He was staring at the Styrofoam box and container of coleslaw. Marcus noticed a towel wrapped around the kid’s left hand. The other held a revolver. He had no idea the model. But it was big. And it was pointed at him.
His fucking gun was bigger than mine...
“You here to rob me, Kit?” There was no reaction.
Marcus wondered if the boy was right in the head. That’d be just like Petilune, to fall for a sad sack. Two peas in a pod. The only difference was, she wore a smile that lit a room. The boy packed a weapon that could drill a hole in his chest you could drive a semi through.
He asked, “You hungry? Polly sent along some nice ribs. Bet there’s mashed potatoes and gravy to go with. Probably enough to share.”
With his heart in his throat, Marcus bent down and grabbed another plate and additional eating utensils. He set them on the table and opened the boxes, arranging them so Kit could see the contents. Using his fork, he divvied the meal onto the plates, taking care to give the boy a larger portion. It hadn’t escaped his notice that the gun hand was shaking. In fact the boy’s entire body seemed to quake. It could be nerves or it could be that the teen was starving. He was rail thin, almost willowy, the skin stretched parchment thin across his knuckles.
Marcus slid the eating utensils across the table and watched warily as the boy silently debated what to do next. The gun hand wavered, then steadied. That was not encouraging. Kit placed his left hand on the table. It was then that Marcus noticed the towel was stained. It looked a lot like blood.
He asked, “How’d you hurt your hand?”
“Long story.”
“Want me to look at it?” He took a bite of mashed potatoes and swallowed. “I’m not feeding you, in case you were wondering.”
Kit puckered his full lips into the briefest of smiles and finally looked up enough Marcus could see his face more clearly. It was bruised and battered, the left eye swollen, his lower lip split and still dribbling blood. He wanted to ask how that happened, but thought better of it.
Marcus moved around the table and grabbed a stool sitting next to the shelf. He pointed to it and ordered the kid to sit, then headed toward the bathroom in search of his first aid kit. It was one of those small plastic containers for carrying in a car or keeping in the kitchen drawer for minor mishaps. He had a professional grade outfit downstairs, but he doubted the teen would take kindly to him leaving in search of it.
When he returned, the gun was on the table and Kit was shoveling food in his mouth as fast as he could.
“Slow down, son. If you haven’t eaten for a while, that won’t stay down the rate you’re going. Especially if you don’t bother chewing, know what I’m saying?” He got a grunt in reply, though the boy visibly relaxed and gnawed at a rib. If the spicy sauce stung his lower lip, the kid didn’t give any indication.
Marcus pried the towel off Kit’s left hand and hissed, “Sweet Jesus, what did you hit, a cement wall?” The knuckles were raw meat, with a long slit that looked suspiciously like a knife or razor cut running clear to the kid’s wrist. It wasn’t deep, but it had to hurt like a sonofabitch. The two remaining alcohol wipes weren’t going to make a dent in the cleanup job facing him.
He reached under the table and felt around for one of his two pots. The kid’s eyes bugged out when he glimpsed the pot and yelped, “Hey.”
“I need water from the bathroom. You got all kinds of crap embedded in your damn knuckles, kiddo. If I don’t clean it out, it’ll fester for sure.”
By the time he returned with warm water, the boy had practically licked his plate clean. The bones were lined up in a neat row in the Styrofoam container. He was looking at Marcus’ plate, mostly untouched.
“Go ahead. Finish it. I’ll fix up this mess and then you and me will have a talk.”
After doing the best he could to remove the grit and dirt, Marcus said, “Bite down on that bone for a sec, I need to use the alcohol wipes.”
The boy did as he was told, not moving a muscle or even whimpering. Marcus knew, if it had been him, he’d have been screaming bloody murder. Marcus muttered, “Tough little bastard, aren’t you?” Kit twitched his middle finger. Marcus snorted under his breath. When he’d finished bandaging the hand, he gathered his supplies and retreated once more to his bathroom.
“I have got to put a damn kitchen in this place. This is ridiculous.”
When he turned around, the boy stood behind him, the dirty plates and silverware in his right hand, the gun in his left. Marcus pointed to the weapon and said, “You know, I’d feel a lot better if you’d put that monster away.”
Grinning, the kid said, “Yeah, sure,” and tucked it in the waistband of his low slung jeans with a practiced motion. Then he handed over the plates and disappeared into the living area.
Discombobulated, Marcus wished he had his cell phone so he could call Josh and ask him to get his butt to the store. He wasn’t exactly equipped to deal with a delinquent who might
or might not be the love of Petilune’s life.
It was fairly apparent the kid had come to get help, or to talk, but it wasn’t clear which option fit. When Marcus returned to the kitchen area, the table had been cleaned off and the food containers disposed of. Kit sat on the stool, his hands splayed on his skinny thighs, back rigid and chin tucked into his chest. Resignation, anger and fear overtook whatever bravado he’d been trying to dredge up. He looked like he’d reached the end of his rope and had no options left.
Marcus could relate. But he had to tread with care. Sympathy and compassion would get him only so far. He and Josh needed answers before the hint of trouble brewing actually blossomed into something that might get out of hand. They had no police force within thirty-five miles of the town. The state cops answered calls as fast as they could, but patrolling the interstate and far flung secondary roads took up all the resources at their command.
Josiah Foxglove was the closest thing to law enforcement they had.
The cell phone burped again. Marcus spied it on the couch but before he could make a move, Kit growled, “Leave it,” and pointed to the chair for Marcus to sit. He did so, reluctantly. The phone sat on a cushion, almost within reach but still too far away for him to make out the display.
The chills running up and down his spine seemed to fit with an intense sensation of claustrophobia, like he was a prisoner in his own house. He didn’t like it. And he was nursing a growing dislike for Kit Golden Eagle. If he managed to live through the encounter, he and Petilune were going to have a talk. If he’d been the girl’s father, she’d be grounded until she was thirty years old.
Finally getting fed up with the boy’s games, Marcus cut to the chase and demanded, “Why are you here, Giniw?”
The kid looked surprised, whether at Marcus knowing his full name or having pronounced it correctly wasn’t clear. He countered with, “Where’s Petilune? She ain’t here. Is she safe?” His shoulder twitched and the hand that had slipped the weapon out of sight moved toward the waistband of the jeans. Kit was on a short fuse, and Marcus was all too aware he was in that line of fire if he didn’t come up with answers the boy would buy.
