by Pax M
The more you listen, the more power I’ll grant you. You’ll rule this desert.
“King George. Haw, haw.”
Take Bart with you. Vengeance is coming. He will hang.
Yee haw for revenge. A path led out of the clearing. Haw Shot lumbered down it to a dirt road, dragging Bart by the leg. When the dirt met up with a paved track, Haw Shot stomped his feet on it. He liked the smoothness of it. “Must be an enchanted road.” What else could it be? He veered toward a blinking light. It called him like a beacon. He could travel forever and drag Bart to the moon. Being a spook was all right. He didn’t tire or feel pain.
The light blazed brighter with a profound message. Vacancy blazed under a dancing cowboy heralding Leeds Motel.
“Saloon girls.” It had been too long since Haw Shot had the companionship of the fairer sex. “Haw, haw.” Lights snapped on and three faces peered out of windows. “Haw, haw.”
In the middle of the long building of doors, a larger section had brighter lights. Open, it said in red neon. Haw Shot shuffled toward it. A slight woman with long black hair fumbled with the glass doors and a set of keys, frowning at him with wide eyes. Her voice trembled through the glass. “Go away. I’m calling the police.” She held something to her ear, her foot tapping.
Her heartbeat echoed in Haw Shot’s chest. Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Delicious. He pressed Bart’s face to the glass. “Meet your doom.”
Bart’s fist pounded on the pane. “Susan, run. Run!”
The drumming of Bart’s rapid breaths filled Haw Shot’s lungs, and he squeezed Bart’s throat until it stopped, a limp Bart doll to do with as Haw Shot pleased. “Haw, haw.”
“Deputy Banks? This is Susan Leeds at the Leeds Motel. You need to get out here. I’ve an intruder. Earl Blacke…”
She didn’t need to say anything more. Haw Shot reached through the glass, putting his arm through it as if the glass didn’t exist, and clutched onto her neck. The object in her hand dropped to the floor. It squawked like an angel, “Miss Leeds? You there? Miss Leeds? Mr. Blacke?”
Haw Shot stepped all the way into the motel office, this time shattering the glass into shards. He liked the effect, the way the pieces sparkled as if they knew they contributed to the deeds of a great name. Haw Shot would be known. “Haw, haw.”
Teasing power churned up in Haw Shot’s gut. You feel it? his angel said. It’s yours if you get her head.
“Keep that coming, and I’ll do whatever you say.” Haw Shot slipped his hands into Bart’s, and placed Bart’s fingers around the blubbering lady’s neck. Using Earl as his puppet had a lot of appeal, especially if it resulted in power and revenge. Earl would hang for killing the lady. Fantastic. “Haw haw.”
“Earl,” she wailed. “Earl, don’t.” Her screams filled Haw Shot as sweetly as kisses.
The object on the floor talked again, yelling. “Susan? Earl?”
Not letting go of Bart’s hands, keeping them on the woman’s neck, Haw Shot twisted Susan Leed’s head until it popped off. Her gurgles and shrieks serenaded him like the clink of bullets in his pocket. Finally, he let go of Black Bart, depositing him on the floor beside the headless woman. “Payment begins, old friend.”
Placing the new head on his shoulder, she had such pretty hair, Haw Shot felt as good as if he had unloaded three guns. “Haw, haw.”
hapter
Daelin sat in her sister’s converted sun porch drinking coffee, filling out the paperwork for the librarian job. In the distance, lights flashed and sirens wailed. Tragedy happened all the time in the city, so she didn’t think anything of it.
She had made herself a breakfast sandwich—toast, cheese, egg, salsa—from the groceries Earl had gifted her. That man was all right. She’d tell Charming so as soon as she saw her. A call to the Paleo Institute confirmed the area researchers were out on a dig. The recorded message on their voice mail said so, but didn’t say where. After the beep, Daelin asked for Charming to call her immediately.
The task done, she stared out the window at an alien landscape. Wilderness after seven years in a huge city was as foreign as foreign could be. Frost dulled the muted colors of the high desert outside, including the carnival of ceramic frogs in the garden. They surrounded the glassed-in room with their cheerful grins and pigments. “A cheery morning to you,” she said to the frogs.
Last night, she had found an empty dresser beside her sister’s in the bedroom loft and had put away her clothes. She hung a few things in the armoire then a few more. Charming had hardly used any of the hanging space.
Choosing a pair of gray wool slacks, a pink flowered blouse, and a periwinkle cardigan, Daelin changed and prepared for the day. She twisted her hair, pinning it up, and applied a few smears of eye shadow, blush, and lip gloss. Her naturally thick eyelashes and brows allowed her to skip mascara and eyebrow pencil. She decided less would always be the better choice in Settler.
The neatly filled out forms completed, Daelin locked up and headed toward the Caslow County offices around the corner from the library. Its steeple stood out among the other buildings, negating the need for directions. She walked five blocks to Settler’s main thoroughfare then veered up hill, passing the mercantile, the cable and internet provider, a car dealership, and the Patrick Swit house. She squinted at the old relic with exposed clapboards and peeling paint. It appeared so ordinary, an old building in need of repair. It hid a lot of crazy, huh?
She had the streets to herself this morning, as still as the lakes mirroring the peaks and sky. Eerily so. No cars. No other pedestrians. All the shops remained closed. “Where is everybody?”
The wind sliced down from the Cascades, rattling her nerves. She noted the thrift store on the corner. Junk in Your Trunk. Daelin pushed on the door, greeted by the happy soft jingle of a bell. Clothes, luggage, dishes, and knickknacks lay on the floor, and the strong stench of wet paint hit her nostrils.
A woman in a long flowered dress hurried forward carrying a paintbrush. “Hello, hello.” She waved. “Excuse the mess. I’m renovating… again.” She laughed with little snorts, stumbling in a little circle, defying her years. She couldn’t be younger than forty. “Inside joke, man, sorry. What groovieness can I help you find? I know where everything is.” She gestured at the piles of castoff merchandise strewn about.
If not for the goose bumps on her goose bumps, Daelin would have left. “A winter coat? Earl Blacke mentioned you might have some.”
“Oh man! What a tragedy about him, huh?” She wore her amber hair in two braids, tied with twine and decorated with plastic flowers.
Tragedy? What had happened to Earl? Daelin clutched at her knotting stomach. “What do you mean?”
“There was a murder last night. Umm, wow. Didn’t you hear?” She set the paintbrush down on a plate that had been used for the purpose before. Bracelets covered her arms, clinking with her simple movements.
“In Settler?” Violent crime wasn’t what Daelin expected to hear. She didn’t know what she had expected, but not murder.
The thrift store woman leaned in closer, whispering in a conspiratorial tone. “Yeah, they’re saying Earl Blacke killed Susan Leeds. Took her head plum off, man. Only thing is…,” she glanced at the shadows then wet her lips, “her head is missing.” The soft scent of melon accompanied her words.
Earl had murdered somebody? Daelin gulped, getting a lungful of paint fumes. Right, the paint. The fumes had to be messing with her mind. “Are you serious?”
“Yup, it’s as true as my paint is peach. Do you think peach is a serene enough color? I dig serenity.”
Gray spackled bins with drips of peach paint marring their grainy surfaces had been jammed together in the middle of the shop. They held pails of paint in all shades, no longer having room for the merchandise gracing the floors. The bins and shelves came from an era long before Daelin breathed life. Most of Settler had been built in decades long forgotten by the rest of the civilized world, the interiors as suspended in time as the exteriors. T
he goods scattered on the floor had the same issue, rejected by modern times, adding to the jumble scrambling Daelin’s head. She tripped over a cluster of glass grapes and groped for the nearest wall, smearing her palm with paint. She winced, wiping at it with her other hand.
“Let me get you a cloth.” The thrift store woman disappeared then reappeared with a wet towel, handing it to Daelin. “I’m Starphish by the way. You’re Charming’s sister, right?”
“Umm, yeah.” Daelin had spent the whole day with Earl Blacke yesterday and never suspected him to be a killer. When checking facts for a novel she had once edited, Daelin had interviewed an FBI agent. The agent had stated the most dangerous killers were always the quiet ones, the psychos, the guys you’d never expect. The room spun.
Starphish caught her, guiding Daelin gently down onto the pine board floor. “You okay?”
“I spent the whole afternoon with Mr. Blacke yesterday. That could be me… the dead one without a head.” What had happened to the head? The egg sandwich sat wrong in Daelin’s gut, she gagged.
With a strong grip around Daelin’s waist, Starphish assisted her to the restroom, which reeked more strongly of paint. Daelin heaved her breakfast into the sink, because the toilet was missing. She turned on the faucet, splashing icy water onto her cheeks. “I… I just came in for a coat.”
Starphish used the cloth to swab Daelin’s face. “How about I sit you outside in the clean air and I’ll bring you what coats I have that might fit you? Groovy?”
“Groovy.”
“Sure.” Starphish helped Daelin hobble outside and sat her down on a beanbag chair that leaked white Styrofoam pebbles. “I’m going to fix it later this week. You feeling the bean vibe?”
“No. Just a coat.” The brisk air helped some. Daelin swallowed it as if guzzling water. A parade of coats flashed before her like a bizarre video that had processed wrong. “I don’t have much money.”
“I know where you live. We can come up with a payment plan. This dark green one really suits your coloring. It’s a little big, but if you have a couple of sweaters on underneath, it’s the perfect size. Dig?”
The coat wrapped around Daelin in a toasty hug. Down puffed it out with warmth to her knees, surprisingly long enough. The sleeves too. The fuzzy lining felt as sinful as the fur-fringed hood. This coat had been made for her.
“It’s faux fur, so you don’t have to worry about animal cruelty or anything. Peace for animals, man. Someone spent a lot of money on that beauty. We can testify to it, right? I intend to charge forty dollars, but I always give new customers a special deal. Special for the new lady. Great, huh? How about thirty?”
“I only have forty to my name until I get paid.”
“Oh, I don’t want to put you out, man. How about you pay me five dollars now and the rest on payday? Dig?”
“I can swing that.”
“Groovilicious.”
At the other end of town sirens screamed. The commotion of lights had increased since entering the thrift store. Daelin and Starphish glanced in the direction of the blue and red flashes. Daelin felt sick again and peeled off the new coat. She fanned her hand in front of her face.
“I think we’re the only ones in town not into witnessing the macabre,” Starphish said. She twisted her head from side to side. “What’s with rubbernecking? You know?” She needed to stay out of the paint fumes. “Love to Susan’s soul, though.” She waved a peace sign at the sky. “Beautiful Afterlife to you, lady.”
Daelin peered up into the perfect blue. The brightness stung her eyes with tears. “Who is… was Susan Leeds?”
“She owns Leeds Motel… or did. There’s a job opening, motel manager. You need a job, Dae? Although, it’s not great karma to get one this way. Rumor has it the guests saw a ghost right before the murder. Freaky, huh?”
“Yeah, freaky. Doubt the motel needs another manager. Who’d want to stay there now?” The morning frost gripped her joints, and Daelin shivered. She slipped the green coat on, pulling it tight. She’d been too close to seeing her last day.
hapter
San Quentin had stomped Earl’s spirit, boxing him inside a room in which a cockroach overcrowded it. During those years, he had decided to change, to be the gentleman most had known him as, to drop his outlaw ways. After his release, the world wouldn’t let him. He needed a new life. So he had run north and took the name Earl Blacke. The portal had granted his wish, depositing him in the future where no one remembered him.
The cell in Settler’s police station had more room, but Earl had already served his time. He’d serve no more. Not in this sad little town, fighting an enemy as to which he had no clue as to the rules.
He punched the wall. The concrete jammed into his knuckles, doling out agony. The bars he kicked did the same. Earl growled. “Deputy Banks, you let me out of here. You know I didn’t kill, Susan. I’m not a killer.”
Lou Banks shrugged his shoulders and hooked his thumbs on his belt. A complexion as dark as charcoal, he blended in with the shadows, which there were a lot of due to the one narrow window. A dusting of gray in his sideburns hinted he might be older than his face let on “You were with Susan. Your hands on her throat, your fingerprints everywhere. You have to be here. You understand?”
He understood the evil in the rift had targeted him. Because of Charming? She couldn’t be left to fight on her own. He had to get out of here. “Where’s my phone call? I need my phone call.” Earl paced, swiping at the blankets on the rickety cot. “Let me out of here.”
“I don’t know what to make of you.” Lou’s teeth pulled at his lower lip. “I can give you a phone call. Make it count and get yourself a lawyer.” He handed over his phone then leaned against the wall opposite, gazing out the dust encrusted line of glass as thin as the barrel of a shotgun.
Earl’s thumb shook, hovering over the numbers on Lou’s phone. He took a deep breath and ran his hand over his face. This couldn’t happen again. He couldn’t go back to prison, certainly not for murder. “I can’t hang,” he whispered, debating who to call.
Charming wasn’t on this world. Dante would kill Earl faster than the hangman if Earl used the policeman’s phone to contact him. Wilma would come, but then Earl would owe her. He dialed Scott’s number. “I can’t hang.”
“¡Hola!”
“Scott, it’s Earl.”
“Morning, boss. Sorry some of the herd got out. I’m fixing the fence now.”
“That’s not why I’m calling. Umm…” Earl punched the wall again, cracking his knuckles open, finding less satisfaction in the pain than the first time. “I need your help. I need you to come down to the police station.”
Scott inhaled sharply. “Am I in trouble?”
Later, Earl would have to look into what had Scott feeling such guilt. Most likely, he hid one of his no-good cousins again. “No, I am. Finish the fence quick, then get over here.”
“Will do.”
Earl handed the phone back to Lou. “You’ll let me talk to him, right?”
“I shouldn’t, but I will. Violet will have my head if she finds out.”
“I won’t tell her.” Earl flashed his most reassuring smile, reminding Lou they were friends, they had history. He didn’t share the same camaraderie with Violet Redfield.
Sheriff Redfield had thankfully gone on vacation. She and gung ho went together like gold and stagecoach robbery. If she caught a whiff of Susan’s murder, she’d be on the next plane.
“We can both stay mum, and she’ll find out anyway. Most likely before the day ends,” Lou said. “She’ll be here tomorrow night at the latest. You know it.”
Earl did. Violet reminded him too much of John Hume, the man who had made Earl a priority back in the 1880s and had sent him to prison. Earl only ever confessed to one robbery. If he hadn’t cracked then, he wouldn’t crack now.
After fixing the blankets he had mussed, he perched on the edge of the cot, hands folded, waiting on Scott. Two eternities passed by his estimate, despi
te the sun shifting only two hours to the west.
The door to the cells clicked then squealed like a dying pig. Sun spilled into the deep shadows, and Scott rushed in clutching a plastic container. The lid had been confiscated. Obviously Lou had inspected the food. Steam sent up tendrils of spices, fish, and stir fry.
“Wilma sends lunch,” Scott said. “You should eat something.” He handed over the container. “Before it gets cold.”
“Not hungry.”
“I’ve heard talk.” Scott winced as if a cow had just pissed on him. “Susan Leeds?”
Earl gripped onto the edge of the cot, choking it until his battered knuckles grew white. “Do I have to say it?”
Eyes as wide as a heifer’s, Scott held onto the bars, peering into the cell. Faint lines added the hint of wisdom to his eyes and mouth. “No. What can I do, boss?”
There might be no way out of this mess, but it helped to know he still had friends. Earl stood and approached the door. He patted Scott’s hand. “I need you to ask the new librarian to research George Hawley for me, alias Haw Shot. He was a stagecoach robber in the 1880s.” Earl spelled the name.
Scott repeated, nodding his head. “Got it. Anything else? I’ll bring dinner by tonight.”
“I assume Lou will feed me. Find me a good lawyer. Not from these parts. You’ll probably have to go to Portland.”
“Got it. My cousins are in the know about these things.”
Scott’s cousins spent more time in court and in prison than not. They would know. Earl’s shoulders felt a little lighter.
“Make sure this weekend’s guests don’t find out about this and keep it off the internet. Okay?” Earl clutched Scott’s hands. “Don’t fail me.”
“Absolutely.” Scott sighed. “Wish I could take you home with me, boss.”
“I wish so, too. Now go find Daelin Long and have her find out what she can on Georgie boy.”
