Southern Ouroboros

by Matt Kilby

  “You can go back to your cell if you want,” he spoke low. “I’ll make sure no one messes with you and let you out as soon as you’re ready.”

  “I’m fine,” Vick said. He got his feet firm and stood on his own, pulling from the sheriff’s hand. He was still shaky, but that would pass. The magic brick might help. Blinking away the room’s slow spin, he fixed his eyes on the front door and headed that way. Halfway there, it swung open and he stopped cold.

  The man who came in was decked in full cowboy gear, but not the kind someone expected to see in public—not even at some Western bar on Hank Williams night. Dressed from head to toe in faded brown leather with thick stitches holding it together, he looked more like a movie extra or theme park actor, though the intensity in his eyes was too unsettling for either. He stopped and raised a hand, his duster drifting enough to show the large revolver strapped to his hip.

  “Can I have everyone’s attention?” the man called out with a voice powerful enough to earn it. Every eye went to him, the threat recognized as fast.

  “He’s got a gun,” someone shouted close to Vick, maybe Sheriff Morrell, but he was too stunned to check. He stood, unsure if he could manage a step, as the rest took cover. Those who wore sidearms drew fast and aimed at the cowboy, who didn’t flinch at the thought of life or death depending on the twitch of a finger. Instead, he offered Vick a smile.

  “Hello, Vick. Good to see you again.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “Not yet,” he shook his head.

  “Then how is this again?”

  The cowboy shrugged, and a deputy must have thought he went for the gun because they shot him in the shoulder. He didn’t flinch or glance to the rivulet of blood trailing down the arm of his coat. His eyes never left Vick’s, but the raised hand closed into a fist. Everyone but Vick dropped to the floor and didn’t move. Vick turned and found the sheriff face down at his feet. Further back, Judge Morgan sprawled in the doorway of the interrogation room.

  “What did you do?” he jerked his attention back to the cowboy.

  “I gave you a way out,” the man lowered his arm. “Take it before they wake up. They’ll only have more questions when they do.”

  Vick sighed relief. “They’re not dead.”

  “Of course not,” the cowboy scowled. “It’s not their time, but they might decide it’s yours. The way it looks, we’re in this together.”

  “Because you said my name.”

  The man shrugged again and turned to the front door.

  “Nothing to do about that now,” he said as he walked. “Come. I’ll fill you in on the way.”

  Vick didn’t budge until a nearby deputy stirred with a groan. He steadied himself on the desks as he passed as fast as he could limp. Outside, the cowboy approached a beat-up car with a woman behind the wheel.

  “On the way where?” Vick called out.

  The man opened the passenger door and stopped, turning to watch him catch up. When he was almost there, the cowboy tilted the seat forward.

  “Your hotel,” he gestured to the backseat. “We’ll need the Godstone before we find Wolgiss.”

  2

  Following Vick’s directions, Carly divided her attention between the highway and the rearview mirror. At first, her glances made sure they weren’t followed, a line of cruisers tailing them to an inevitable standoff. When they appeared to be safe, her eyes dropped to the reflection behind John—the weary face leaning against the window.

  Seeing Vick in person didn’t spark the same memories as his name. The age difference had been enough to keep their younger paths from crossing. Even now, the boy was a vague memory, but she knew his dad better. Before hers became sheriff, he was Mitch Hafferty’s partner, almost close enough to be friends. Every time she did something she shouldn’t—first by accident and later to get under her old man’s skin—Mitch wore an amused smile as if reminiscing his own delinquent youth. Sometimes he brought coffee to help sober her after she got caught drunk under the highway 16 bridge. When lectures turned to shouting, he suggested her father cool down and then sat with her until he did, filling the silence with small talk to distract from the eventual round 2. At Lud’s worst, she wished she could trade him for Mitch, his son on his way to a better adjusted life. Now, he sat in her backseat, far from where they both started.

  Five minutes outside of Creek Hollow, she gathered her nerve to talk. It was hard with the mileage on her face—the dullness of her eyes and track marks on her arms. Sobriety made her faults neon arrows pointing to the worst of her, the exact reasons she used in the first place.

  “You’re Vick Hafferty,” she told the mirror.

  “That’s me,” he mumbled, more to the window. “You see me on the news?”

  “No,” she shook her head. “I mean, I did, but that’s not how I recognize you. I’m from Pine Haven. My dad was your boss.”

  He squinted into the mirror. “Carly Arkin?”

  “Snead now, I guess,” she glanced at John for confirmation, but his eyes were on the road ahead.

  “This your husband?” Vick nodded to the cowboy. A sharp laugh bolted out, a flow of chuckles trailing behind. Vick’s brow furrowed as her mind went.

  “Him? Don’t you know that’s John Valance?”

  The name would be familiar to any Pine Haven native, and Vick’s reaction didn’t disappoint. His smile faded when he realized she was serious. Shock came next, mixed with fear what she said was true. Whatever he’d already seen left the door wide for ancient cowboys to stroll right through.

  “How is that possible?”

  “Small world, I guess.”

  “The world is enormous,” John spoke but didn’t look at either of them. “The Godstone makes it seem small.”

  “Is that what it’s called?” Vick said.

  “What we called it, but something like that doesn’t come with a proper name.”

  Vick stared out the window. “It fits.”

  “Should I be excited or afraid?” Carly asked, but neither answered, making the second choice more likely. Deciding was a pit too deep to linger in long, so she distracted herself with driving—even if every second of road brought her closer to something that forced immortal cowboys into reverent silence.

  After ten minutes, Vick sat forward and pointed to a cluster of lights on the horizon.

  “There’s the hotel.”

  His gray pallor made her wonder what had worked through his head those few quiet minutes. As they pulled into the parking lot, his eyes fixed on a door, as if he feared something might walk out and wave. She debated asking to wait in the car. At the same time, she fought a losing battle against curiosity. When she turned off the engine, she got out first.

  Vick came last, and they waited for him to walk past and up to the room that kept his unbroken attention. At the door, he stopped as if time might freeze for as long as he needed. John watched with infinite patience, leaving Carly to keep everything moving.

  “You did just break out of jail, right?”

  “They were letting me go,” he said but didn’t reach for the knob. “I was on my way out when your friend put them all on the floor.”

  She jerked her attention to John, who moved his shoulder enough to qualify as a shrug.

  “They’re fine,” he added. “None of them will have more than a headache when they wake up.”

  “Great, but that isn’t exactly their standard procedure. I might not be Ms. Law-Abiding Citizen, but having a cop for a dad teaches you the breed is curious. Give them a question, they’ll want an answer. Anyone want to guess where they’ll sniff first?”

  “I know they’re on their way,” Vick said, softer. Wherever he went in the car, he was back again.

  “You feel it, don’t you?” John said. “What has to happen.”

  “I always did. Joe told me, but I didn’t listen. It didn’t mean anything except a way to find Eric.”

  “And it will.”

  “But what does it cost?”
/>
  “You always had the right questions, though the answers are never easy.”

  “What does it cost?” Vick repeated.

  “When you left to look for your friend, what were you prepared to pay?”

  “Everything.”

  “And when Suzanne disappeared?”

  “How do you know about that?” Vick turned with an edge to his eyes.

  “The same way I knew you had the stone. Now answer the question.”

  “I would give everything to get her back.”

  “Even your life?” John raised an eyebrow.

  “In a second.”

  “Lucky for you, you’ll keep that.”

  “Will they lose theirs?” Vick’s short breath said he suspected the answer.

  “If they have to,” John told him. “If so, they’ll be heroes, even if they don’t mean to be. Their deaths will ensure others live. The world will turn, their sacrifice the pillars that keep the universe in place. As many times as I’ve seen this happen, even I’m too insignificant to change anything. I doubt I would. For every ounce of our pain, a million joys bloom. That convinced me when I was in your place, trying to avoid an inevitable decision.”

  Vick shook his head. “Sorry, that doesn’t do it for me.”

  “Maybe this will. We’ve had this conversation eleven times, by my count. Every time, you have the same trouble letting go, but you’ll change your mind. I can’t for you. Neither can the stone. But if you come with me, you’ll understand on your terms. You just have to unlock this door.”

  No one moved for long enough Carly thought it her job to inject more reality into the situation.

  “Cops,” she looked from John to Vick. “Any minute, sirens will wail down the highway. I’m all for caution with old cowboys and stones named after God, but I left enough questions back home to have an idea what happens when Creek Hollow’s finest run my name through a computer. Trouble. Plenty on my own but more because of your disappearing act. Between that and being kept at some shady motel long enough for people who want me dead to catch my scent, my only chance of getting through this is to ride the next rocket into space, so can we go inside, grab that divine rock neither of you can shut up about, and drive somewhere else to finish the conversation?”

  “Will you let me tell you a story before you make up your mind?” John asked Vick.

  “Jesus,” Carly closed her eyes. “Not here.”

  “On the way.”

  “To Eric?” Vick clarified.

  “Yes.”

  “To kill him.”

  “I’ll leave that up to him,” the cowboy shrugged. “I always have.”

  Inside, the room was a mess, any furniture not bolted down turned over and dresser drawers pulled into the floor. Vick’s clothes were strewn from his suitcase to the bed, the mattress leaning against its frame. He ran to the bed springs and the messenger bag in the center, grabbing the strap to dump something out. His relief was a sigh as he stepped back beside John, glancing to see his reaction. If there was one, the cowboy buried it under his stoic gaze.

  “That’s it?” she followed their eyes to the black brick on the bed skirt.

  “That’s it,” John said.

  “What does it do?”

  “I saw it light up once,” Vick offered. On the other side of him, John grew the biggest smile she’d seen on him. He went across the room. At the bed, he picked it up. Sure enough, a bright light pulsed inside.

  “See what I mean.” Vick appeared fascinated, as if the glowing brick was nothing short of a miracle. The longer she stared, the same feeling grew in her, fading when the cowboy put it in the bag and the strap around his shoulder.

  “How did they miss it when they tossed the room?” Vick looked around.

  “It hid,” John said as he walked to the door.

  “It was just lying there,” Vick said, his eyes following the cowboy.

  John turned back. His eyes passed from Vick to Carly.

  “Are the two of you coming or should I break you both out next time?”

  Carly considered protesting that she said the same thing but didn’t bother. If she tried, no one would have heard because Vick rushed to catch up, leaving her alone to wonder where this led. She took some small hope in the fact John told her he was keeping her safe and didn’t seem the lying kind. Then again, death kept orbit around him.

  In the end, she followed. The cowboy was halfway across the lot as if he really would leave, but he didn’t walk toward her car. His boots pointed at a Dodge Charger parked farther down.

  “I guess I’m driving,” Vick called out but didn’t get any answer. The cowboy went to the passenger side and waited, wearing the same focus as when they left their hotel. When they were in, Vick cranked the engine.

  “Where to now?”

  “Creek Hollow,” John said. “A small church down the street from the sheriff’s department.”

  “You better be joking,” Vick gawked.

  “I’m not.”

  “Down the street from the people looking for us.”

  “If they’re coming here, they won’t be there,” John met his eyes. “They don’t expect you to go back. Their money is on you running the opposite direction. If you want Eric, he’s at the church. Or you can give them what they want—a chase with who knows what trouble at the end. The choice is yours.”

  “Some choice,” Vick muttered as he slammed the car into gear. With a huff, he drove toward Creek Hollow as the first flashing lights appeared ahead.

  “The stone makes the right ones obvious,” John said, “but lets us choose. No matter how painful, we do it the same every time.”

  Vick breathed sharp but didn’t say another word. The cruisers came down the other side of the highway, brake lights flaring at the hotel. Leaning between the seats, Carly spoke instead.

  “You’re talking about yourself, aren’t you? What happened after you went with the old man?”

  John sat back, taking off his hat to prop on his knee.

  “There is time to finish. It may help our new friend with what comes next. He should know I killed three innocent men I thought murdered my wife. An old man pretended to help until he told me the truth: the real killer fled west and waited in a place called Eris Cove. At the outskirts, we made camp, and he prepared me as I’m preparing you.”

  3

  In California, the thing called Lester Johnson directed John south. Against his better judgment, he followed.

  When he reached a canyon, he rode down the steep, narrow trail, expecting an ambush in the corridor of rock. Instead, winter’s wind whispered as a ghost down the walls, bringing a shiver and warning his horse echoed with a grunt. Still he rode, the old man behind him with fingers he imagined became claws over the miles, but when he checked, they were the same withered skin over arthritic bone.

  Before Lester stopped him, John swore he heard the ocean—the waves so loud, he was sure they were coming to drown them both. Lester pointed to an outcropping and told him they would camp there. As every time before, John obeyed without question or protest.

  They unpacked the horse in a shared silence that didn’t break until John built a fire and sat. As the day they met, Lester’s place was across the flames.

  “You’ll wait for night and go on foot,” the old man said. “I can’t guide you further.”

  “Why not?” John asked. It’d been so long since he spoke, his voice sounded foreign. For the first time since Kansas, the word came from his mind instead of whatever hold Lester had on him.

  “It’s what he wanted. I’ve learned to listen.”

  “You work for him. That’s why you were in Pine Haven that night.”

  “Something like that. A closer truth would be we work for a mutual boss.”

  “And who is that?”

  He shook his head. “None of your questions matter, because the answers will come on their own if you do what I say.”

  “I’ve never known you to shy from a conversation,” John h
uffed.

  “You never have at all.”

  “I guess not,” John studied him. “I bet your name isn’t even Lester.”

  “It came with the body. The original Lester Johnson picked me up as a stowaway down the road, and I became as much him as he ever was. Then we headed to Pine Haven to wait for the sky to open.”

  John remembered Michael Arstrom saying a man fell the night Mary died. At the time, he thought the boy suffered a mixture of too much imagination and too much drink. It didn’t make any more sense now, but he couldn’t think of much else but the fact he killed three brothers for nothing.

  “You made me hunt those men down.”

  “I told you that was your decision,” the old man shook his head. “You declared them guilty as soon as you found your wife. I just went along.”

  “Why?”

  “Why else? So you’d trust me enough to get to this moment.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You won’t,” the old man offered a sympathetic smile. “Not how you want, but a kind of understanding will find you soon.”

  “When I meet the man who killed Mary.”

  Lester nodded.

  “I’m ready,” John said. “Tell me where to go.”

  “Wait until night,” the old man shook his head.

  John drew his revolver and set it on his knee.

  “I thought we were past threats,” Lester raised an eyebrow. “Shooting me wastes bullets.”

  “They still hurt?” John tilted his head. “Looked that way in Kansas.”

  His silence was answer enough, so John aimed into the flames. He fired, the bullet catching Lester in the chest, jerking him back to lie with blank eyes pointed at the sky. John watched the life come back, the old man exhaling before he sat up.

  “That wasn’t nice,” he glared.

  “I have plenty of bullets,” John said, “especially if your only answer is ‘wait and see.’ I’m bored of that.”

  “So you’re just going to keep shooting me?”

  “Got to pass the time,” John aimed for the bloody patch on Lester’s shirt. He tried to put the next bullet in the same spot, though an inch to the right did fine. This time, the old man growled his frustration when he sat up, the ferocity in his eyes hinting at the stowaway spirit inside. John second-guessed his approach. Every creature had a limit to how many times they were willing to be kicked. He tilted the revolver and put his thumb on the hammer but another revelation found him.