2,000 Miles to Open Road (Barefield)

by Trey R. Barker

  2,000 MILES TO OPEN ROAD

  By

  Trey R. Barker

  Copyright 2012 by Trey R. Barker

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Down and Out Books, LLC

  3959 Van Dyke Rd, Ste. 265

  Lutz, FL 33558

  Visit our web site at www.DownAndOutBooks.com

  First eBook Edition:

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover design by JT Lindroos

  ISBN: 978-1-937495-18-3

  2,000 Miles

  Hal Turnbull's throat itched.

  Right where that son of a bitch in Elk City, Oklahoma, had stabbed him. Damn scar was two inches long and shaped like a pissed-off snake and right now, he wanted nothing more than to put a little lotion on it, get himself a bottle of Daniel's, put on some Joe Ely or Charlie Sexton, and forget this entire mess.

  And he always got what he wanted, didn't he?

  "Yeah," he whispered as Templeton's car stopped. "When pigs fly and I grow a twelve inch dick."

  Focus up, Hal. Shouldn't be too hard. Ain't that often you traded twenty grand for a DVD. Then there was Templeton, who'd definitely be packing. And don't forget about Templeton's goon, who'd also be packing.

  And if that isn't enough, don't forget about the disk and your brother.

  Hanford Eric Turnbull. Sitting in that nice office waiting for the phone call. At least, Hal hoped Hanford was waiting on the call. Hanford hadn't actually taken the call yet but things were rolling now, moving right along, and eventually Hanford would have to answer that damned phone.

  With all that, should'a been damned easy to focus. Instead, Hal stood there, wanting to scratch his scar and wishing the sweat on his skin didn't feel as though an army of ants crawled on him while the stench of this crappy little city crawled through his nose.

  A giant cesspool, this town. Full of tourists and fifty-cent gangster wannabees and arrogant hoods who believed they were just a hop, skip, and shoot 'em up away from Vegas.

  "I know Vegas," he said. "I've been to Vegas and this ain't no Vegas." He snickered--getting punchy, he thought--as a light breeze blew the stench into his face. It smelled like shit. Not metaphorically, not figuratively. Literally. Because this was the only place Templeton would meet him.

  It was high summer in Nevada, it was hot, and goddamn but didn't it stink.

  With a thin, shaking hand, Hal wiped the sweat off his brow and wished for the millionth time for a Corona. Nice frosty bottle, yellow and white label, a nicely sliced lime sitting on the bottle's rim. Theresa, when she wasn't playing third grade teacher, drank from those bottles like nobody's business. Her tongue came out and touched the rim before the entire top part disappeared in her mouth. Christ, it was--

  When the door to Templeton's Benz slammed, Hal almost crapped a brick. He bit back a yelp and stood as tall as he could, setting his right foot back just a bit in case he had to lunge. Then, trying to look casual, he adjusted his 'South by Southwest Music Fest' ball cap.

  It was a beautiful car. Too bad it had to ferry around such a piece of crap. Midnight blue with metallic flakes shining in the Nevada afternoon sun. Silver wheels and chrome polished to a blinding sheen.

  Hal wiped his face again and saw Templeton smirk. Thinks you look weak, Hal thought. Well, Hal wasn't anything if not weak.

  Stop it. You ain't weak. You ain't. Ain't.

  A crappy daily affirmation banging around in his head.

  He stared at Templeton and the skull stared back. Templeton always wore that ugly black belt with silver medallions on it and that friggin' skull buckle, polished silver…grinning. Around Templeton's neck was a chain with a matching skull.

  Today, like every other day, Templeton wore a western suit. It shimmered from all the metallic material woven through it. All his suits looked the same. This one was a blue as deep as the car. Probably bought the car to match the suit.

  The three of them, Hal, Templeton, and the goon--Hal preferred to think of him as Goon--stood not anywhere near toe to toe in a smelly dirt lot on the northeast side of town. The thrum of city life went on, obliviously, around them. The state prison was less than a 1/4 mile south and didn't he feel naked with those guard towers standing over him? The animal shelter was about the same distance north and those dogs sounded pretty unhappy right now. The nearby highway, US 50--and don't think he hadn't already realized that was his ticket outta here--was filled with cars and trucks but none of it--except the dogs--seemed to reach his ears.

  Hal swallowed and shifted his back ever so slightly. The gun, a strict no-no for this particular deal on Templeton's orders, pressed tightly against his sweaty skin. Sweaty from the heat, yeah, but sweaty too, because he was fucking scared half to death, maybe three-quarters to death. His heart banged like a cheap drum and his blood was running as fast as his bowels.

  "I am not cut out for this shit," he said.

  "Excuse me?" Templeton said. "I didn't quite catch that."

  Hal swallowed. "Can't catch what I didn't throw." He wiped down again. "Damnit." He put his hands in his back pockets.

  "Hot enough for you?" Templeton asked.

  "Let's just get this done, ho-kay?" Hal set the paper bag down in front of him and stepped back.

  Templeton grinned. "You look a little tired, Hal. That's some pretty good black you've got going beneath your eyes. My mother told me never to stoop the way you are. Did you get enough sleep last night? Or, rather, any?"

  "Don't worry about my sleep, ho-kay?"

  But the truth was, Hal was exhausted. It made his blood run slow, made his feet and hands heavy and slow as bricks. Yeah, he wanted this disk. Yeah, he wanted to get out of town. But at least as much as that, he wanted to get some sleep.

  In his ears, along with the howling dogs, was his watch's tick. It was as loud as the Luther Allison he battered himself awake with every morning, as loud as Allison's growling songs, as the man's guitar.

  Tick-tock, it said. Tick-fucking-tock.

  That was what kept him from sleeping just yet. The tick-tock and the man who refused to take Hal's calls. 'Cause as soon as Hal talked to the man and showed him how it really was, Hal would be back in Theresa's arms. All the rest was bullshit.

  Except the visions.

  Yeah, there was that. But soon as he had this DVD, which was the proof of his innocence, Hal knew the visions would stop. And if they didn't, he'd die of exhaustion before he ever made Theresa's arms.

  Templeton cleared his throat. "On to business, then. Twenty thousand dollars is quite a bit of money for someone like you." He snorted contemptuously.

  "Cashed in some savings bonds."

  "No doubt birthday gifts from your grandmother."

  "Leave my grandmother out of this, asshole. She was a good woman. Ain't no reason for her to be in your mouth."

  Goon, his face as blank as the surrounding desert, retrieved the money. Handing it to Templeton with his left hand, he kept his right across his stomach. Hal frowned and a moment later, understood. Goon was keeping his hand near his shoulder holster.

  It was that moment that the air changed. It still smelled like crap but there was a new vibe and Hal didn't dig it at all. Even the dogs seemed to have quieted.

  "You have to pick the sewer plant?" Hal asked. The smell matched the color of the mountains ringing town: shit brown scrub.

>   Without answering, Templeton opened the bag. "It all appears to be here."

  "Appears? It is or it ain't. Which is it?"

  Quietly, his mouth moving the slightest bit, Templeton counted the $100 bills slowly and reminded Hal of a studious bank teller. Forget the pile of bullshit trailing behind both of them and this could be just another deposit.

  During the counting, Hal shifted foot to foot. He kept his eyes on Goon and after seven full minutes of silence, Templeton nodded and handed the money to Goon. A slow grin spread across Templeton's face, each of his painfully thin lips curling around perfectly white and straight teeth.

  The smile pissed Hal off. He had been raised in the oil patch in west Texas, just another son of a bitch with blue permanently tattooed around his collar and the privileged smugness of Templeton's smile annoyed him. Reminded him of Hanford's smile.

  Guess privilege makes a man stand tall.

  In Templeton's case, it was that and all the damned bodies he was standing on.

  Hal had no bodies to stand on, didn't want any, either. But he would have given just about anything to get this whole nightmare done and get his ass to Barefield.

  But first get the disk. Get it to Hanford. Then get himself to Theresa for a future that would probably be obnoxiously bright and promising.

  But when Goon moved his hand closer, that future clouded up. Maybe Hal should have bought some back-up muscle. "Shit."

  Templeton's right eyebrow rose. "Excuse me? You seem to be talking to yourself quite a bit today, Hal."

  "Don't guess it's a problem unless I start answering, huh?" He tried to laugh but the brittle, scared sound got sucked up by the heat. To cover, Hal spit. A tired gob that evaporated before it hit the dust. "Come on, let's roll the show. We good or what?"

  "Patience, Hal," Templeton said. "We'll be finished when we're finished." His eyes caught Hal. "Until then, shut your fucking hole."

  Surprised, Hal concentrated on the disk. Where was it? Templeton's pocket? Goon's? In the car? What if they hadn't even brought it? What if this was less a matter of selling a DVD to a buyer than whacking the buyer and taking his money?

  "I am still surprised you called. You must need this disk quite badly."

  Like you can't imagine. Like you and your fucking goon and your cheap mob clichés can't imagine. "You got your money, give me my property."

  "Answer me this: why? It's no great work of art. There is a little excitement, but mostly it's eye candy. Whips and chains, couple of women, that's about it."

  "Mama always said I was a perv."

  Silence fell, broken only by the continuing tick of Hal's watch. It seemed as loud as the guns Hal fired recently; bullets fired into walls and floors to intimidate answers out of people who knew where the disk was.

  "No doubt. You know, of course, the chances I take selling this item to you. It could get me killed."

  Hal laughed. "Are you kidding? Nobody's got the eggs to kill you. That voodoo gangster bullshit scares ever'body away. Wave a skull necklace, give 'em a chant, call up Marie Leaveau? Sends 'em all packing."

  "Except, apparently, you." Templeton lowered his head a bit, stared at Hal through the tops of his eyes.

  If the man weren't so scary, it would have been comic. "Shit, you ain't even on the disk. Or so I hear."

  "No, I'm not on it. Not quite my cup of tea."

  "Still got a copy, don't you?"

  "Call it ambition." Templeton grinned his foul grin.

  "What's that mean?"

  "Climbing the corporate ladder."

  "Ho-okay, whatever. You wouldn't sell it if you were on it and hadn't taken care of all the problems that might cause. Christ, you think I'm stupid?"

  Templeton grinned and in spite of the heat, Hal's blood chilled. Templeton's lips pulled straight back, parting slightly over his teeth. Those damned perfect teeth stared back.

  "I do, Hal," he said. "That is exactly what I think." He patted the pocket with the money. "But you're being entirely too literal. Selling this DVD doesn't cause me problems, but could to those who are on it. Besides, do you truly think I would take a few dollars for this? The limit of your imagination is staggering, Halford."

  Goon's hand rested now on the holster. His face lost some of its emptiness. Lines and crevices formed as his eyes got brighter.

  Here we go, Hal thought. Gonna get popped by some steroid-driven idiot when I'm too tired to fight back and then they're going to toss me in the crap plant. For once in my life, what I wouldn't give to see some cops just about now.

  Templeton nodded. "There it is, the fear that shows a man has just realized he's been bested." Templeton shook his head. "The sad thing is, Hal, it took so little to do the besting. This was not one of my more entertaining business ventures."

  The sun cast a slight shadow over Templeton's face. "Of course I am not going to sell the DVD. I'm going to take your twenty, let my associate leave you with a small bit of lead, then I'm going to go home to my wife and ask if she'll blow me."

  Goon looked confused. His brows knitted together. "We ain't selling it?"

  Templeton glanced at him sideways. "What?"

  "Well, you said he wanted to buy it, so I--"

  "You what?"

  Red crept into the man's face. It spread like the stain of a slap. "Well, I brought it." He pulled it from his coat pocket. "I thought we were selling it."

  Templeton laughed and the sound surprised Hal. It was loud and brutal and completely assured. "You sure you aren't related to Hal?"

  Hal stood up as tall and straight as his five-and-half foot frame would allow. He was a good half-foot shorter than Templeton. "Give me the goddamned disk or we'll end it here and now."

  "Is that an order?"

  "No orders, I already had lunch. Give me--"

  The sound had already pierced the afternoon air by the time Hal heard it. A high pitched squeal. It might have sounded like a coyote or a big ass bird or maybe one of those screaming dogs from the shelter, but Hal knew exactly what it was.

  "Hal? Is there problem?"

  "One man's problem," he said, adrenaline thrumming in his system. Holy Christ, had that car always been that loud or was that his heart, pounding against his ribs and cracking them?

  "Hal, you aren't making much sense."

  "Gimme the disk."

  Goon shook his head and stuck it back in his pocket. "You heard him, we aren't selling."

  "Gimme the disk," Hal said, but he knew it wasn't going to happen. Damnit. He had been there, right there, at the edge of getting everything squared away. Not only that, but getting it squared away his way. Now Hanford would just have to read about it in the papers.

  Shit, he thought, you think your death will make the papers? Think again, buddy.

  The car exploded around the corner and into the sewer plant's parking lot as though someone had shot the damned thing from a cannon. The tires smoked and the engine's scream fell for a slice of a moment and then ratcheted back up through two or three gears.

  And as the car came out of the tire smoke, Hal saw two people. Dogwood must have gone and gotten that psycho Jonathon. Well, the upside was Jonathon would be creative enough that Hal's death would certainly make the papers. Hanford would be able to read about after all.

  Dogwood's Mustang, waves of heat spilling from its roof, slid to a halt and every day of Hal's life stumbled through his head. Goon turned toward the car and Hal moved quickly. He jerked the Glock he'd boosted from the pimp in Fresno and smashed it on the back of Goon's head. Goon fell quietly and quickly, became a pool of quivering flesh in the dirt.

  "Where's my money, Hal?" Dogwood screamed.

  "You steal twenty thousand dollars and aren't even smart enough to finish the bastard off?" Templeton asked Hal, staring at the Mustang.

  "I ain't a capper."

  When Templeton turned toward Hal and saw Goon in the dirt, his eyes went wide. When he saw Hal's weapon, he sputtered and yanked his own gun.

  There was a tiny p
op and a bullet thunked into the dirt near Templeton's foot. Templeton dove for the cover of the Benz. A surprised but steely "The fuck is this?" spilled from his lips.

  Another pop sounded and dirt near Hal puffed.

  Hal yelped and stumbled toward his own car. Five or six bullets plunked into the side panels.

  Templeton yelled something incoherent and slung himself over the hood of his Benz, a big goddamned gun in his hand. When it popped, the explosion dwarfed whatever kind of gun Dogwood had.

  Into the air spiraled Dogwood's laugh. "That all you got, you fucker?"

  From beneath the tail of his car, Hal watched Dogwood toss the smaller gun aside and whip out some monster thing. Looked about a hundred feet long and as big as a stout woman's thigh. Its pop was huge, followed by the explosion of the driver's side window in the Benz.

  Then the air was full of pops--no, not pops but fist-sized bangs. They fired at each other, Templeton behind his Benz, Dogwood inside his Mustang. The shooting stopped only long enough for empty magazines to be spit out and full ones jammed in. Hal was fairly certain they had only a passing idea of who they were shooting at but now that it had devolved to guns, Hal had slipped easily from their minds and that was a damned good thing.

  Goon lay twenty feet from Hal, not quite in the field of fire. While Hal might not have killed him, he was sure as shit dead now. At least three bullets had left raggedy holes in the man's head.

  Staring at the man, Hal hardly heard the war zone or the dogs. Nor did he smell the stink. His heart was in his throat and he wanted to go home; to get dead ol' Mama on a three-way call with Hanford and confess a lifetime of sins.

  Instead, he went after the DVD.

  Because that would be a confession, too, wouldn't it?

  "The fuck are you, Hal?" Dogwood said over the shooting. "Where is my money?"

  "Isn't his anymore, asshole," Templeton said.

  Hal tuned them out. Get the disk while they're killing each other. He dashed across the chasm. At five feet from Goon, he slipped, his feet out from under him like a west Texas boy suddenly on ice. He hit the ground hard and crab-crawled to the body.