by Tony Healey
The Russian was unmoved. “That is not how this is going to work.”
“Wanna bet?” Ethan growled, cocking the hammer back on the pistol. As he did so, the Russian sprang forward, around the ladder, out of sight. He was directly beneath the loft where Ethan was standing. Surprised by the move, Ethan waited with his gun drawn. “Don’t make me shoot through the boards, big guy. No one has to die tonight.”
Something big and heavy struck the platform beneath his feet, sending Ethan toppling to one side. He caught himself against the eaves as another mighty slam seemed to shake the entire barn. He suddenly realized that the giant was trying to bring the loft down. Sure enough, the Russian took to swinging his body from underneath of the timber platform. It creaked and popped, threatening to give way. Ethan somehow maintained his balance; then something cracked and the floor fell away beneath him.
The loft was torn away from its fixings and sloped sideways, spilling him out into the dark. The back of his head struck something on the way down and the gun flew from his hand. He tried to maintain his grip on it, but it skirted past his fingers, just out of reach.
He slammed into the straw-strewn floor with an awful thud, so hard that he felt it in every inch of his body. The horses were going wild, neighing in their pens with agitation. Luckily they were out of the way of the cascading loft.
Winded, Ethan rolled over to his side. He concentrated on breathing, painfully sucking in one breath, then another. Enough to keep himself conscious and see the monster step into the thin, pale moonlight coming through the open doorway. He was in no rush.
“If I wanted to, I could bring this entire barn down around our ears,” the Russian told him.
Ethan did not doubt this statement. He cast about for his pistol, but couldn’t see it anywhere. The Russian cracked his knuckles and rolled his head from side to side, his neck popping. “I am not just going to kill you. I am going to hurt you first.”
“For what?” Ethan asked, trying to buy some time. Precious seconds in which to think of something. Anything. “I’ve never met you before in my life.”
“For what you’ve done to my boss. He wants you hurt bad. And after I’ve broke you, that is when he wants you dead,” he said, head cocked. Small eyes pearlescent in the moonlight. “I think I’ll snap your neck in the end. I’ll snap everything else first, and leave that to last. . . .”
Ethan got to his feet, wincing. He’d hurt himself falling from that height, no doubt about it. The back of his head hummed, but he didn’t feel a hot trickle of blood down the nape of his neck, which was a good sign. But he hurt all over, and from what this Russian monster was saying, if he wasn’t careful, he was about to hurt a whole lot more. Ethan backed away, looking desperately for the gun, but he couldn’t see it anywhere, not a sign of it.
As the Russian drew near, Ethan swung out with his fists. His right hook landed square on the Russian’s jaw, and the hit barely registered. Any other man, it would have sent him flying across the room. But the Russian didn’t seem to notice. Ethan smacked him with his left, his knuckles crunching into the Russian’s ribs.
Again nothing.
Ethan gaped at the Russian in disbelief as the giant snatched him round the neck like a hen, lifting him single-handedly off the ground with ease. As Ethan choked, fighting to free himself from the man’s mighty grip, he could see the inquisitive expression on the Russian’s brutally distorted face. His grip tightened, squeezing, and Ethan’s vision blurred, turning black at the edges as the fog of unconsciousness crept in.
Ethan quit trying to pull the man’s hands off his throat and focused instead on hurting him any way he could. He went for the Russian’s face, jabbing his thumbs into his eyes sockets and pressing in as hard as he could. The Russian cried out, howling in agony, flailing his massive arms about and dropping Ethan once more to the floor. Again Ethan tried to recover his breathing as the giant figure floundered about, temporarily blinded. Ethan got up, kicking frantically at the hay in an attempt at finding his gun. Something flashed to his left, he bent down and his hand closed around the barrel of his pistol. He turned the gun over into the right position with his finger nestled securely against the trigger. He straightened up and spun about with the gun raised, ready to fire.
The Russian gripped his wrist, pushing it up with ease. Ethan fired once, twice, the shots so loud in that confined space, they were like explosions, and dust and timber rained down around them. The Russian’s viselike grip threatened to cut off all feeling to Ethan’s hand. Any harder and it would have snapped his wrist clean in two. Ethan slugged him with all he had, but it was like punching a tree stump, hurting him more than it was hurting his opponent.
“Now I kill you!” the Russian roared, applying force to swivel Ethan’s gun around, aiming it at him. Ethan used his free hand to try to force the gun away, but the Russian was too strong. It took every ounce of Ethan’s strength just to keep the muzzle out of his face.
Out of nowhere, there was a bright flash and a sound like a lightning strike. Ethan felt heat and smelled smoke. The Russian froze on the spot, face shocked. His grip loosened, and Ethan wrenched his wrist free, staggering back. He turned to the doorway and saw the sheriff’s deputy standing there, a rifle held at the ready.
He’d fired over their heads and stood ready to fire again if need be.
The deputy stepped forward. “Stand clear,” he said. “As for you, big boy, you can stay right where you are. Believe me when I tell ya, my next shot will hit you square between the eyes if you make any sudden movements.”
Ethan stood to one side, brushing himself off with one hand, his gun held in the other.
The Russian was breathing hard. “What now?”
“Now I intend on putting you in a cell. As for the rest, I haven’t thought that far ahead.”
“How did you happen by here?” Ethan asked, gasping to catch his breath. He might have been tussling with the big Russian for mere seconds, but it had felt like hours.
“I go for a walk sometimes. Clears my head. Helps me sleep,” the deputy replied. He nodded in the giant’s direction. “Lucky for you.”
“Well, I’m mighty thankful,” said Ethan. “I haven’t caught your name, Deputy . . .”
“Boyd Mitchell.”
“Good to meet ya. I’m Ethan.”
The deputy nodded, not taking his eyes off the Russian. “How about you, huh? You got a name?”
The Russian’s face tightened.
“Cat got your tongue there, fella?”
“No name.”
“Man with no name,” Mitchell said, pulling a face. “Interesting. Maybe after you spend a bit of time in our cell, your name will come to you. Like a miracle.”
“Nikogda!” the Russian exclaimed, puffing his chest out. “I cannot be caged!”
Mitchell gestured with the rifle. “Less of that. Now turn around, hands behind your back.”
The giant Russian seemed resigned to his fate. He slowly turned around, and as Deputy Mitchell closed the distance between them to bind his wrists, the Russian spun, the back of his fist striking Mitchell and sending him flying. The rifle in the deputy’s hands fired.
Ethan raised his gun, but the Russian had already made for the door and fled.
“Damn!” Ethan fired, his shot going wide and missing its mark.
Ethan ran after the Russian, but he was already gone. There was no sign of him at all. Just the town of Amity Creek at rest, and the night filled with questions.
Returning inside, Ethan knelt next to the deputy and attempted to rouse him, slapping his cheek to little effect. The man had been knocked out cold. Now that his eyes had fully adjusted to the darkness within the livery stable, Ethan was able to find the water and pour some of it on the deputy’s face.
Mitchell sputtered awake. His eyes opened, took in Ethan, the barn. He sat up, appearing half crazed as he t
ried to determine how he’d ended up on his backside. Ethan placed his hand on the deputy’s shoulder and implored him to lie back down. “Don’t make any sudden movements. Just lay where you are a minute.”
“Where is he?”
“Took off. I shot at him, but he was too quick.”
Boyd Mitchell squeezed his eyes shut, wincing. “I feel like I got kicked by a mule.”
At the sound of movement outside, Ethan whirled about, pistol at the ready. But it was only Warren, roused from his cot by the commotion in the barn. He took in the mess made of the loft. “My Lord! What in damnation has gone on here?”
Ethan relaxed, tucked his pistol into his belt. “Trouble.”
Warren clutched his head. “Oh, no,” he said, further taking in the state of the barn, face filled with disbelief at what he was seeing. “Looks like there was a big old ruckus in here. Were you two fighting?”
“No, no. The deputy saved my bacon. I was fighting someone else.”
“Who?”
“A big Russian,” Ethan said. “Sent to bust me up.”
Warren looked dumbfounded, his face pinched. “A . . . a . . . a Russian?” he exclaimed in disbelief.
“Yessir. Great big tall fella.”
“Really?”
Ethan nodded slowly. “Would’ve killed me for sure if it weren’t for the deputy here happening by.”
Mitchell asked for a hand in getting to his feet. “Can’t lay here no more.”
“If you’re sure,” Ethan said, helping him up off the floor. Mitchell stood unsteadily, but kept himself upright. “I think you’ll be all right,” Ethan told him.
Warren handed the deputy his rifle. “There ya are, Boyd.”
Mitchell thanked him, then turned to Ethan. “You know that man?”
“The Russian? No. Never seen him before in my life.”
“Sure?”
Ethan rubbed at the back of his head. It throbbed, like a dull ache. “I think I’d remember. . . .”
“Good point,” Mitchell said. He looked at the damaged hayloft. “You’ve been sleeping up there, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
Mitchell stood with his rifle in the crook of one arm and his thumb hooked into his belt. “Well, clearly that ain’t safe anymore. Now either you’re gonna bunk at the station, or I’m going to have to insist you leave town.”
Ethan frowned. “I’m confused. Am I under arrest, Deputy?”
“No, I don’t mean bunk in a cell. I mean the cot we’ve got out back. It’s comfortable enough. Unless you fancy riding out of town tonight.”
“No, I do not.”
“I can’t have you stay in here. I can’t in good conscience allow you to go to the guesthouse and attract trouble there. So you can either come to the station, where you’ll be protected, or hit the road.”
“I guess I’ll be going to the station, then.”
The deputy nodded. “It’s settled, then. Warren, get the man’s things down from there and clear these horses out the way, in case that loft falls down. We can get this fixed up in the morning, I reckon. Could’ve been a whole lot worse.”
“Right you are,” Warren said.
“Store his gear somewhere safe when you’re done, you hear?” Mitchell ordered, leading the way.
“Sure thing, Deputy,” Warren called after them.
Ethan fell in step with him. The two men went with caution, wary of the slightest noise or movement. Ethan wondered if the Russian had simply run off or happened to be hiding somewhere, waiting for his moment to pounce on them. But of him there was no sign. There was only the dark, and the quiet of night broken by the occasional barking of the dogs. Whoever the Russian giant was, he was long gone.
* * *
* * *
Mitchell unlocked the station door and set the lamps burning to give them light. He then set about lighting the burner and feeding lumber into it. “It gets cold in here sometimes,” the deputy said.
Ethan shut the door. “Clearly you haven’t slept in a barn.”
“Point taken,” Mitchell said. He found Abernathy’s whiskey. “I think tonight calls for a nightcap. Don’t you?”
“I won’t say no,” Ethan told him. “But won’t the sheriff mind?”
“What Henry don’t know won’t hurt him.”
“Fair enough.” Ethan watched Mitchell pour two glasses and accepted his with thanks. “To men who take their walks at night.” They threw the whiskey back at the same time, Ethan sucking in his breath from the burn that followed. He set his glass down. “I want to thank you for saving my skin back there.”
“Just doin’ my job, is all,” Mitchell said. “I don’t want any trouble in my town.”
Ethan sat on the edge of Abernathy’s desk, arms folded. “Seems to me this town ain’t as tranquil and idyllic as you seem to have convinced yourself, Deputy.”
“How do you reckon?”
“The Hart family murdered in their own home. The cloud that seems to hang over this place, the kind of shadow a man of influence projects. I’ve seen it before, Deputy. I doubt it’ll be the last time I see its like on my travels, either.”
“If you’re referring to Jack Denton, I don’t care for the man. In fact I’d like very much to send him on his way and see him gone for good.”
“You know, far as I can tell, he had motivation to kill Glendon Hart.”
“True,” Deputy Mitchell agreed. “But there’s nothing concrete to link him to the Harts. In the eyes of the law, he’s innocent.”
Ethan cocked an eyebrow. “And yet we both know that’s not the case, don’t we, Deputy Mitchell?”
“What do you want me to say?” Mitchell asked, tapping the star on his breast. “I dedicated myself to the law. I can’t go bending it because I don’t like a man. It don’t work that way, as I am sure you know all too well. You say you’ve been around? Well, then, you must’ve seen men like Denton all over. You know how it is. How difficult it is to make something stick once money and power are thrown into the mix. He came by here the day after the murders were discovered and stated his intention of buying the land when it went up for sale. A slippery fish, that one.”
A moment ticked by, neither men saying anything further, both lost in the fugue of their own thoughts. Then Ethan cleared his throat and said, “Wonder who the Russian is working for.”
“I can make an educated guess,” Mitchell said with distaste, shaking his head. “The same man we’re both thinking of is gonna be at the funeral tomorrow.”
“He is?”
“Yep.”
Ethan couldn’t believe it. “Denton knows no shame.”
“I’ll ask him about the Russian after the service. Put him on the spot.”
“Good idea.”
“Are you going to the funeral?”
“You bet.”
“But you’re new here,” the deputy said, frowning. “You didn’t even meet the Harts.”
“I know. But I lost family just as Myra Hart has. I know how she feels. I know how hard it is when the people you love are taken away from you. In that respect, I guess you could say I know the Harts better than anyone.”
Deputy Mitchell poured them both another glass. “And your interest in Denton, Ethan?”
“A story for another time,” Ethan said, accepting his glass of whiskey from the deputy. They clinked glasses and drank, and Ethan winced at the pain in his side.
“He get you?”
“A little. I fell straight from the loft,” Ethan said, rubbing at his ribs. “I can hold my own, but I’ve never fought a brute that size. Hell, I’ve never seen a man that size in my life.”
“I almost couldn’t believe it, either,” Mitchell said. He almost laughed at himself. “Reminded me of one of those circus freaks. You know the kind that bends iron bars with his bare h
ands?”
“I know what you mean,” Ethan said. “Do you think he came out of a show?”
“Could have . . . ,” Deputy Mitchell said, swirling his glass of whiskey, liquid gold in the lamplight.
“Question is, what’s he doing here in Amity Creek? All roads seem to lead to Denton, no matter how you look at it,” Ethan said.
“Ah, but the trick is proving it, isn’t it? I don’t know how believable it is that Denton would employ a man looks like he stepped off a circus wagon, but on the same breath, I can’t rightly refute it, either. It certainly fits the mold that Denton would send someone here to rough you up.”
“Or kill me.”
Mitchell tipped his head. “That, too.”
“How does a man like that get away with things for so long?” Ethan asked.
“Two words. Money and power.” The deputy sighed. “But I’ve always believed that everyone faces the consequences of their actions in the end. No amount of money or power can prevent that from happening. Something comes along one day, stops men like Denton in their tracks.”
“Maybe it’s about time that happened,” Ethan said, looking into the fire in the burner.
“One day the people of Amity Creek will see everything that man has burn to the ground,” said Mitchell. “Mark my words.”
Ethan nodded thoughtfully. “All it takes is one little spark. . . .”
CHAPTER TEN
At the Amity Creek cemetery, a chill wind blew in from the south, the crisp blue sky populated with enormous white cumulus resembling the sails of ships. The pastor invited those gathered on the hill to come forward and pay their respects to the Hart family by the scattering of soil. The caskets had been lowered into one long hole in the ground that held them all, side by side. A “family plot” was how Bercow had described it to Myra, and she’d struggled to think of anything worse. But it seemed the simplest, easiest solution to a problem she couldn’t have imagined facing in a million years.
