by E A Lake
Those people were not one bit intimidated by the fact that I was a lawman. They’d probably shaken down so many people in the seven years since the world went to hell that they’d try and take Jesus’s robe away.
“Now, before we got all tense here,” I replied, staring at Brent. “I don’t think I can give up anything you’ve asked for. I might have a half-dozen biscuits left from this morning. But that’s about all I’m willing to part with.”
Brent shook his head, peeking back at his ready-to-shoot group. “You don’t want to be like that, friend. This ain’t worth dying over. Just cough up a box or two of ammo and we’ll put this all behind us.”
I looked at Art. “What do you think? Ready to fight for what’s ours or do we give some of it away to these ruffians?”
He rubbed his scruffy beard, eyeing the man on his right. “I don’t know, Quinn. This ain’t the kind of reception I expected to find here.”
The red-bearded man lowered his gun and stepped forward. “Did you say Quinn, old timer? As in Quinn Reynolds?”
Art nodded and I noticed everyone else take a step backward, looking much more concerned than before.
He cocked his eyebrows at his leader. “I don’t know about you, Brent, but I don’t think this is a good idea. Not sure I want to die today.”
Brent studied my face for a long minute. “I guess that is Quinn Reynolds,” he finally mumbled. “The beard threw me off. I’ve seen you before, all on good terms. Just didn’t recognize you with the facial hair. You remember me at all, Quinn? Brent Boyce. We ain’t ever been officially introduced, but we’ve crossed paths.”
Breathing huge sigh of relief, I acted as though I recalled him. “Your face is familiar. But I think it’s been a while.”
He shrugged and motioned for his people to clear the road. “Probably been two years. Maybe a little longer.”
As we started to move again, Brent stepped closer one last time. “I ain’t got no beef with you, Quinn. So don’t go holding an honest mistake against me.”
I didn’t bother replying. Whatever I had on Brent and his gang was our little secret. Or, more rightly put, his secret.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SEVENTEEN
We rode without stopping the rest of the way to the north side of town where Art said we’d find our potential savior. That’s not to say we didn’t attract attention though. No, every man, woman and child eyed us suspiciously as we rode post. And nary a word was uttered between them and us.
We dismounted in front of an old abandoned-looking metal warehouse. The side, once a bright green, had become dulled from years of neglect and displayed plenty of rust patches. If this was the fortress of a king, it seemed we may have come to the wrong place.
Several armed men showed us inside and after my eyes adjusted to the muted light, I noticed the building was just as crappy on the inside as on the outside. For a brief moment, I felt as though we’d walked into a trap; one where our lives might be ending at any second. Then we were shown into a large conference room. Oh, what a difference locations made.
Everything was purple: the walls, the shag carpeting, even the windows had been painted a deep shade of the color. Though there wasn’t a throne for the king, a comfortable-looking purple recliner sat empty in the center of the room.
The man who came and greeted us couldn’t have been more opposite of what I’d expected. I expected a beast of a person, similar to the size of Alvin Cooper — the one who’d tried to break me in half. This man was anything but Alvin Cooper.
“Sheriff Quinn Reynolds,” the diminutive Hispanic man said as he extended a hand to me. “I have waited years to meet you. I must say, I’m quite a fan; quite a fan.”
If he was five feet tall, it was because he was wearing two-inch lifts in his purple sandals. But that wasn’t what had me staring at the man who introduced himself as Karlos Sanchez. Not even close.
He wore…well, he wore very little. Aside from his sandals, he was shirtless and wore only a pair off-white boxer briefs. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. He wore a purple belt as well. On his left side hung a long, rusty machete. On the right, I would have sworn he had a cap-gun stuffed in the belt.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sheriff,” he said, void of any accent. “I’m so glad we’ve never met under hostile circumstances. I’m not sure any of my people would care to be on the receiving end of your brand of justice.”
He seemed happy enough. He even gave me a hug and did the same to Art. After signaling for us to take a spot at a nearby table, he called out for drinks or something.
“Dos cervezas, por favor,” he shouted happily. He took a spot next to me and gazed hard enough into my eyes to make me uncomfortable. “Tell me, good sheriff; how are you? What news do you have from outside of Terre Haute?”
I thought about jumping right into what I needed but decided to humor him with some causal conversation first.
“Well, you know,” I began. “Life sucks everywhere nowadays. Hard for everyone just to get by.”
He nodded enthusiastically. “True, true.” His smile — no, grin — told me he knew something; what it was I wasn’t sure, so I decided to proceed cautiously.
“Things are alright in Pimento,” I continued. “Just the usual rabble-rousers causing trouble.”
He nodded more, itching his smooth dark lips with a finger. “Tell me, if you will dear sheriff; is your old friend Tony Shaklin one of these troublemakers you speak of?”
King Karlos seemed to know a lot about what went on outside of Terre Haute. A whole lot.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED EIGHTEEN
What Karlos knew was amazing, simply amazing. And the detail he provided was spot on, as though I’d already told him the tale.
He knew five women were missing from Shaklin. He knew I was suspected in helping them escape. He knew they were holed up in Pimento. Hell, he even knew each of their names. And he knew more.
“I understand Tony Shaklin is very upset with you,” he said, playing with his long, braided dark hair. “I hear he’s sent people to retrieve his property even. But of course, they’ve failed.”
“Thus far,” I added quietly.
“I am told he came and paid you a visit, too,” Karlos went on. “Though I’m also told he went back to Hymera empty-handed.”
I nodded. “True.” It was a small victory, but a victory none the less.
“He is going to take this up with Judge Harold Lampler, you know,” Karlos said, giving me a sad smile. “The judge of course will side with Shaklin; he always does. Not that it will mean anything to a man like you.”
“Yeah, I’m kind of waiting for the judge to show up and give me a hard time,” I replied. As hard as I tried to recall the name, no face came to mind for the judge in question.
“I’m sure he always does,” Karlos added sadly. “It must be frustrating taking the rap for everything that goes wrong in the area.”
“Yep,” I answered because it seemed like the right thing to say. “But I have another problem as well. One that I’m hoping you can help me with.”
Karlos held out his index finger. “First, I must ask, is there anything I can get for you? More beer, food perhaps, maybe a woman?”
The beer was warm and strong, most likely someone’s special home brew. I wasn’t really in the mood to eat and I didn’t see the need for any female hospitality at the time.
“No, I think we’re fine,” I replied.
“What about you, Deputy Art? Can I interest you in anything?”
I glanced at Art, hoping he’d keep his mouth shut. So help me God, if he inquired about the last choice, I might have had to shoot him on the spot.
“No, I’m fine,” he replied with a wave. Thank God for small miracles.
“So,” Karlos said, leaning away from me in his swivel chair. “Tell me what I can help you with, Sheriff Reynolds. Because if I can, I certainly will. I’d love to do business with you.”
The way he’d said “love” was a b
it concerning. I’d ask, he’d say yes. I’d ask how much and then the real torture would begin. That’s the way I saw it at least.
“I need several hundred fighters,” I said, almost embarrassed by my request. “I need to rescue seven female workers from Shaklin’s place and the sooner the better.”
He pursed his lips as he glanced around the room. He whispered something in Spanish to another person and they shrugged. When he looked back at me, he didn’t seem happy.
“I have no beef with Tony Shaklin,” he replied. “Providing you with fighters would give him a beef with me. That’s not a good situation; not one that I wish to be involved with.”
“Do you provide him with slaves?” I asked, probably a little on the terse side.
“I don’t deal in slaves,” Karlos shot back easily. “I find employment opportunities for people who are either unemployed or currently under-employed.”
Oh boy, he was smooth.
“Do you deal with employment issues for Shaklin?” I asked further.
He sighed and looked at me as if I didn’t understand a thing he was saying. “I’ve had requests from him from time to time. Typically, I refer them to some other business associate. His trades usually seem to be favoring one side more than the other…if you understand what I mean by that.”
I nodded. “Any recent requests from that direction?” I had to ask.
“I had a message a little bit ago he was looking for five young ladies,” he replied, gazing up as if trying to recall the details. “House staff as I understood it. But now I hear he’s looking for more. Perhaps he is planning on losing his remaining staff to you already.”
“Hardly,” I mumbled, peeking at Art. Had he really fallen asleep on me? Really?
“But the fact remains,” Karlos concluded, slapping my right shoulder, “I cannot get involved in this fight. Perhaps if you care to run over to Champaign or Indianapolis, you can find help there. Shaklin has very little influence in either of those cities.”
Both were more than 60 miles from Pimento. That required a full day’s ride there, dealing with a group of unknowns, and a full day’s ride back. Not something I wanted. There had to be another solution.
“Be sure to say hello to your old friend the judge for me when you see him,” Karlos added as we rose to leave. “And let him know what an honest man I was with you.”
An honest crook, got it. But why was the judge my old friend? I thought he was one of the biggest thorns in my side.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED NINETEEN
I’d had a dull headache most of the day. It had shifted into high gear after my meeting with King Karlos. The stress of raising a group of fighters to take on Shaklin — and constantly failing — was getting to me.
After dinner, Morgan, Petri, Ronnie and Sasha joined me for a summarization of the day’s events. Since there wasn’t much to tell, my part of the deal went quickly.
“I’m confused,” Morgan said after a short pause in the conversation. “Why would Shaklin be looking for more women than just five? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Maybe he got rid of the other seven,” Sasha answered. “Couldn’t trust them anymore. Or maybe he’ll just boot them to the curb when he has replacements for them. Either way, we might not need an army now. Not the way it sounds.”
Petri gazed at Sasha like she was a prize at the carnival. A prize he stood absolutely no chance of winning. Ever.
“That don’t sound like the Tony Shaklin I’ve always heard about,” Ronnie added with a frown. “He’s a ruthless man. In my way of thinking, he’d be making the remaining seven do all the work of the 12. Work them to death if he had to. That sounds more like Shaklin.”
“So, King Karlos said no to the fighters, right?” Petri asked. He was about 20 minutes behind the rest of us. But that was probably five minutes ahead of where I would have thought he’d be.
“Yep,” I replied, wandering into the kitchen looking for a treat, hoping the pounding in my head would dissipate if I ate something sweet. Finding a sugar cookie that would suit me just fine, I returned to the dining room. “We can try Champaign or Indy he said, but he doesn’t want to get involved.” And if I was honest about the situation, I didn’t blame Karlos one bit.
Another question came to mind. “Ronnie? Do you know when we might expect to see Judge Lampler? Anytime in the near future you suppose?”
Sasha and Morgan to look away quickly. I wondered what that was all about.
“Probably later this week,” Ronnie replied after some thought. “If not then, first thing next week.”
“Anxious to see your ex-father-in-law again, Sheriff?” Petri asked.
What the—
“Shut up, Petri,” Morgan scolded. “Don’t you know it’s not polite to speak out of turn?”
He looked at me, offended or remorseful. I couldn’t tell.
“All I said—” he spat.
“You said enough,” Morgan vented. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Oh really.
“Why don’t you elaborate, darling,” I said, turning and taking Morgan’s hands. “What is it that Petri seems to know that I don’t?”
Morgan gave me the most insincere smile ever, one that looked so fake that even a blind person could see through it.
“It’s not a big deal,” she began, sounding mighty contrite. “You know, it’s just a silly little detail that I didn’t want to bother you with.”
“You mean another of your lies,” I retorted, shaking my head as I stood up. “I’ve told you a thousand times; no more lies, Morgan. You said I knew everything.” I spun and faced her, shaking a finger at my busted girlfriend. “And now it comes to light there was one more thing I needed to know. Kind of a huge bit of information, don’t you think?”
She rose and came at me with open arms. “I’d heard he was stepping aside.” She looked to Sasha for support. “We all heard that, last year sometime. How was I to know he hadn’t.”
“Carla’s father is the district judge,” I vented, feeling a renewed vigor in the pounding in my head. “And from the sounds of it, he’s not all that fond of me.” I squeezed my temples as the pressure rose to new heights inside my brain. “This is all messed up.”
“Just relax and take some deep breaths,” Morgan said sweetly, trying to take my hands. Fat chance of that happening. “Don’t get all wound up. He doesn’t really have a lot of authority over you. He knows he can’t force you to do anything you don’t want to.”
I took a deep breath, squeezing my eyes tightly shut. “I’m a sheriff; I’m a killer sheriff. Now on top of that, I find out I don’t even respect the law.”
It was too much for me to process. My headache swung into full gear as I ruminated over what I’d become. Here I thought, from all I’d been told by my four friends, I was a decent person. The truth was laughably opposite.
“Meeting adjourned,” I muttered. “I’ve got a terrible headache. I’m going to bed.”
The others remained in place as Morgan chased after me into the bedroom. After she pulled back the covers and got me situated, she kissed me gently on the lips.
“I’m sorry, Quinn,” she whispered, tucking me in like a mother would her young child. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’d never do that intentionally.”
Whether that was true or not still remained up in the air. But she was acting awfully nice and sweet at that point.
“Good night,” she said, kissing me one more time. “And always remember, I love you.”
I should have thought about that last part; maybe then my dreams would have been better that night. Instead, I continued to perseverate on the notion that I was a terrible person. Nightmares would haunt me all night long.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY
It was as if someone stood over me and snapped their fingers as loudly as they could. Perhaps it was God giving me my wake-up call. I bolted straight up in bed and gasped in the dark room. It wasn’t yet morning, but the house was
quiet and Morgan lay beside me, so it had to be somewhere after midnight and before sunrise.
My headache was mostly gone; just a small tinge of pain remained, nipping at the edges of each temple. I felt better; much better. But something was different in my head. Something was very different.
Just as I went to lay back down, a thought popped into my mind. A thought from long, long ago. And then a face; the face of my grandmother — my mother’s mother.
I realized at that moment, sitting in the dark on my bed, that I remembered…everything.
Flashbacks flooded in. Christmas many years back. Belinda was probably three or four. I remembered thinking what a pain it was to pose by the festive tree with her.
I remembered my father’s unhappiness with life, my mother’s sweet, genuine smile and the love that she showed my sister and me…something my father was unable to. I remembered kisses from my grandmothers, hugs from great aunts, my grandfather’s stoic expression. I remembered so many things.
I remembered junior high, my math teacher, Mr. Franklin — he was an asshole. My science teacher, Ms. Dearth — she was a hottie. I remembered holding hands with Penny Luedke in the dark at a dance. I remembered her tiny form in my arms as we held each other tightly during a slow song.
I remembered the ribbing I received from my best buddy the following week — Tony Shaklin. I recalled he and I tossing the pigskin around, talking about which gal we wanted to kiss first. I smiled at the thought, remembering it would be another three years before either of us dared to do such a thing.
I remembered a pale green car that Tony’s dad bought for him and all the cruising we did together in Terre Haute. Oh, how we thought we were the king of all shits back then. I remembered how Tony stepped in as Bruce Larson threatened to kick the living crap out of me junior year. And he easily could have. But Tony was tougher than me, or Bruce for that matter, and the beating never happened.
