The large room was dark as Smith was led through with no one else inside the place except him and his captors. Hobson led the way, while Kyle and Stephens walked behind Smith. They hadn’t bothered to handcuff or even bind his hands, and Smith wasn’t sure if he should be grateful or a little insulted by that. Maybe they saw the condition he was in and how unsteady he was on his feet for most of the trip and didn’t think he was much of a threat. That, or the bra still wrapped around his head screamed “harmless.”
Not that Smith had any intentions of trying to escape. He was good with his hands, but he wasn’t that good. At least, not good enough to take on three guys. Three armed guys.
Now, if he could get his hands on a gun, then it would be another story.
“So where are we going?” Smith asked as they were halfway across the lobby and headed for the double doors on the other end.
“I told you, you’re meeting the Judge,” Hobson said.
“What does he want?” Smith asked, even though he thought he already knew.
Travis had pretty much laid it all out for him last night. He had asked anyway, though, because maybe he could glean more information from Hobson; or, at the very least, some idea of what he would be facing.
“He has some questions for you,” Hobson said.
“What kind of questions?”
“You’ll find out when we get there.”
“You can’t give me a hint?”
“No.”
“Come on, Hobson.”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
Smith decided to try another tactic. “Where’s Mary and her son? They were supposed to be safe here.”
“They are,” Hobson said.
“After what happened at the junkyard, you expect me to believe that?”
“You don’t know anything about what happened at the junkyard.”
“I know that you guys attacked them.”
“Is that what Blake told you?”
“She doesn’t have to tell me anything. I was there, remember?”
“I was there, too,” Stephens said from behind Smith. “Saw you falling like a lump of coal.”
“‘A lump of coal?’” Smith said. “How does a lump of coal fall, exactly?”
“Like how you did last night.”
“Yeah, but can you describe it? ’Cause, you know, I was too busy being sucker-punched by an asshole with a rifle. So, I didn’t really get to see how a lump of coal falls.”
“Smartass,” Stephens said.
“Better than a dumbass.”
“Shut up, you two,” Hobson said.
“Just making conversation,” Smith said. “Trying to figure out why you would attack a bunch of girls in a junkyard, that’s all.”
“You don’t know anything, do you?”
“You saying that’s not what you did last night?”
“The truth is more complicated than that. Not everything is as black and white around these parts.”
“Seems pretty black and white from where I’m standing.”
“Because you’re not from around here. You don’t know the facts.”
“So why don’t you clear it all up for me?”
“That’s not my job.”
“What is your job, Hobson?”
“Take you to the Judge.”
“So you’re his lackey?”
Hobson’s shoulders tightened up slightly. It was almost imperceptible. Almost.
“Hey, I’ve been there,” Smith said, hoping to push for more information. “Playing the good soldier, following the orders to the letter. That was before I decided I wasn’t going to die for someone else’s war.”
“You need to shut up now,” Stephen said from behind him.
“Can’t. My tongue has a mind of its own.”
“I can fix that.”
“Sorry, Stephens, but I’m not into guys.” Then, to Hobson’s back, “So why are you running around town fetching things and people for this Judge, Hobson? Is it the free wives he’s giving out like candy? Is that all it takes to buy your loyalty?”
Hobson stopped and spun around, so fast that it actually caught Smith off guard. The older man poked Smith in the chest and leaned in close. “Shut up. Shut your fucking mouth, Smith. You don’t know me. You don’t know a damn thing about me.”
Then the sheriff turned and walked out the door without another word.
Someone—probably Stephens—poked Smith in the back to “nudge” him forward after Hobson.
Smith stepped outside and into the warm morning sunlight. It felt good, but it would have felt better if he wasn’t being taken to the Judge, where, according to Travis, he had to defend himself against three charges of murder.
Seventeen
Gaffney, home of the Fighting Panthers, was a good-size town. At least, the parts of it that Smith could see as he was taken out of the police station and walked down its main street, from which the rest of Gaffney was connected to. A water tower jutted into the sky about a block away like a rocket ship, a faded purple panther looking ready to claw someone’s eyes out with sharp talons plastered across the side. It was the tallest structure in the entire place by far.
Hobson led them down the sidewalk while Stephens and Kyle kept a respectable distance behind Smith, almost as if they expected him to try something. Or maybe they were hoping he would. If it was the latter, they were going to be disappointed.
Smith knew when he was up a creek, and he was there now. This was no time to play hero. He might have acted differently if he thought he or Blake were in imminent danger, but they weren’t quite there yet, as far as he could tell.
Not quite yet.
Gaffney was big enough for a few thousand citizens, but of course there wasn’t even close to that many taking up space. Smith only counted a handful on the streets or hanging out of apartment windows as he was led down the sidewalk. A few curious citizens stopped what they were doing to get a look at him. They must have realized by the way he was being flanked by Hobson up front and Stephens and Kyle in the back that Smith wasn’t there by choice.
As far as Smith could tell, the faces staring at him didn’t look like they belonged to people being held prisoner. During his time with Black Tide, Smith had seen what captives looked like and how they acted when they were being kept somewhere against their will. Nothing he was seeing on the streets jived with what Blake had told him about Gaffney—certainly nothing that would have qualified the town as a “hellhole”—and that only led to more questions.
Was Blake wrong about Gaffney, or were there things he still hadn’t seen yet?
Smith was leaning toward the latter, but he also had to remind himself that he didn’t know Blake all that well. And maybe, just maybe, he was thinking with the wrong head when it came to a woman like her.
Maybe? Probably is more like it.
Up ahead, an older man was brushing the sidewalk with a broom, while another was giving haircuts inside an old-fashioned looking barbershop, complete with striped pole out front. The man getting his hair cut glanced out the window to watch Smith being marched by. Farther up the street, Smith spotted two more people wiping down the sidewalks. Both, like the first one, were older people. Cleaning, apparently, was a job for the older survivors of Gaffney.
The others were loitering about, people waiting for something to do…or something to happen. A few kids chased a dog into an alley while a girl and her mom came out of a building carrying cleaning supplies. If he didn’t know any better, Smith would think he was in any ol’ Small Town USA, only with way fewer people.
“Clean town,” Smith said after a while. “You guys must have an army of sweepers working the place every morning and afternoon.”
Hobson, turning the corner, didn’t reply.
Smith turned with him. “Who decides who cleans the place, and who just watches?” When Hobson remained quiet, Smith glanced back at his two bodyguards. “What about you two? You guys help out with a broom every once in a while? O
r is posse-ing a full-time job?”
Both Kyle and Stephens took their cue from Hobson and remained quiet.
“So it’s the silent treatment, huh?” Smith said.
Smith turned back around. He could see now where Hobson was leading him—there was a courthouse up ahead about another block away. It was a big red brick building with four Doric-style columns up front. GAFFNEY COURTHOUSE was written in bold black letters at the top, with a still-running clock above that. Five windows reflected back the morning sunlight—three on top, two at the bottom. Concrete steps led up to a highly decorated front door, the way flanked by guardrails.
It wasn’t exactly Washington, D.C., but Smith guessed it was good enough for Gaffney…and the man who called himself the Judge.
Hobson led him through the courthouse, which was mostly empty except for an elderly man sweeping the floors and a woman, about the same age, wiping down all the glossy and glass surfaces with a wet rag. Smith couldn’t help but notice that all the menial labor jobs were done by older people in Gaffney.
Their boots echoed off the polished tile floor and up the steps to an office on the second floor. Another man that Smith remembered from Hobson’s posse yesterday stood guard outside a door marked, simply, JUDGE. The man was wearing the same Cornhuskers cap and was eating breakfast from a metal tray when they arrived.
“Judge in yet, Dunham?” Hobson asked.
The guard nodded. “Inside.”
Hobson opened the door and motioned for Smith to enter first.
He did.
The Judge was at the window inside the large room, peering out at the immaculately clean streets outside. Sunlight reflected off his bald head as he turned it to look over at Smith. “Mr. Smith. Welcome to Gaffney.”
The man who called himself Judge was in his late fifties, with a balding head and a round shape that told Smith he hadn’t starved during The Purge, or the years since. He wore a flowing black robe that looked tailored for his generous paunch, and the sight of him in his “official” garb made Smith wonder if the man wore it all the time.
“Not your real name, of course,” the Judge was saying.
“What makes you say that?” Smith said.
“John Smith? Really?”
“You don’t think there are people out there actually named John Smith?”
“Oh, I’m sure there are. I just don’t believe you’re one of them.”
“That’s your prerogative, Judge.”
Hobson had taken up position behind Smith, while Kyle stood in front of the closed door. Stephens had remained outside with Dunham.
The Judge pulled down the curtains to cut off some of the natural light and walked over to his desk, where he opened a drawer and took out a box of hard candy. He unwrapped one and popped it into his mouth before working it around his gums and, on occasion, clamping down with pearl-white dentures.
The big man picked up one of those candies (Smith glimpsed Jolly Ranchers on the side of it) and offered it to him. “Did you have breakfast yet?”
“Not yet,” Smith said. “And no thanks. I don’t have much of a sweet tooth.”
“That’s my problem. Too much of a sweet tooth.” The Judge unwrapped the proffered candy and added it to the one already in his mouth. “Is that the latest fashion?”
“What’s that?”
The Judge tapped his own temple.
Ah, Blake’s bra.
“It’s all the rage with the kids,” Smith said.
The Judge chuckled. “That’s my other problem. No sense of fashion trends.”
One of many, I’m sure, Smith thought.
He said, “So what am I doing here? It’s not to discuss trends, is it? ’Cause I have to tell you, I’m going to come up pretty short on that subject.”
“Right to business, eh?” the Judge said.
Smith shrugged. “It’s early, and as previously pointed out, I’m hungry. I’m hoping that once we’ve had our talk, you’ll let me eat something.”
The Judge sat down in a swivel chair that squeaked loudly as he settled his large heft on it. The man heard it too, and glanced past Smith at Hobson. “Remind me to get Henry to put some WD-40 on this thing, will you?”
“Yes, sir,” Hobson said.
The Judge folded his hands on the desk in front of him and stared across the huge furniture at Smith. “I’m trying to decide what to do with you, Mister Smith.”
“Is that why you abducted me from Mandy’s junkyard?” Smith asked.
“Is that what happened last night?”
“You don’t know?”
The Judge shrugged but didn’t confirm or deny. The man said instead, “I read Mr. Hobson’s report. He says things were a little chaotic last night. You know what they say about the fog of war.”
“And what do you know about war? All you did was attack a junkyard full of women.”
The Judge smirked. “Dangerous women.”
“To you.”
“To all of us. To Gaffney.”
“From what I hear, they don’t want to be a part of Gaffney.”
“Is that what they told you?”
“It’s not true?”
The Judge shrugged before leaning back in his chair, which creaked loudly under the strain. “It’s complicated.”
“Of course it is,” Smith said. “But I still don’t know what I’m doing here.”
“Mister Hobson and the boys retraced your steps yesterday. They found the bodies you left behind. You killed those men in my jurisdiction, Mr. Smith.”
“And who gave you this jurisdiction, exactly?”
“I did.”
“Is that how it works?”
“It is, these days.”
“I suppose anyone can do anything they want, as long as they have the guns to back it up,” Smith said, turning his head slightly to “look” back at Hobson without actually following through with it.
“I brought law and order to a lawless land, Mr. Smith,” the Judge said. “The people appreciate that.”
“Not everyone.”
The Judge smiled without showing a single one of his gleaming white teeth. “Yes, well. As the saying goes, you can’t please everyone. So only a fool would try.”
“And you’re not a fool, I take it.”
“Far from it.”
The man leaned back across the desk, round black eyes focusing in on Smith with the kind of intensity that was supposed to be intimidating. Except Smith had been under the harsh glare of better, tougher men, and the Judge didn’t come close.
“What do you want?” Smith asked.
“I want you to go back to that junkyard and bring Mandy back here,” the Judge said. “Or, failing that, end her life.”
Ah. There it is. The real reason I’m being “judged.”
He wished he could say he was surprised, but he wasn’t.
“And if I don’t?” Smith asked.
The Judge leaned back and folded his hands across his wide chest. “I’ve gone over the evidence that Mr. Hobson presented to me. Having done so, I’m confident in making the judgement that you murdered those three men in cold blood, without just reason or due process.”
“You did all that in less than one day, huh?”
“Justice moves speedily around these parts.”
“I can see that.”
“As far as I’m concerned, you’ve been found guilty.”
“So no trial, then? Your boy Travis said I was going to get a trial.”
“Travis was…misinformed. I made my judgement based on all the evidence before me last night. Since there was very little doubt as to what the verdict would be, I saw fit to skip right to the judgement. You know, to save everyone time.”
“So I don’t get to defend myself?”
“You can, if you want, but it won’t make any difference. My decision is final.”
“That’s convenient.”
“This is Gaffney.”
“I guess so,” Smith said. Then, “So what’s the
punishment?”
“Hanging, or death by firing squad. Your choice.”
“I get to decide, huh?”
“Or I can decide for you, if you would like.”
“What’s option number three?”
“I already told you.”
“Kill Mandy for you.”
The Judge shrugged. “Or bring her back here alive. Whichever is easier for you. I have no preference.”
“What do you want with her?”
“She has crimes to answer to. I have stacks of charges against her.”
“So unlike me, she gets a trial.”
The Judge smiled.
“Or not,” Smith said.
“The evidence against her is even more overwhelming than it was against you. And like your case, the judgement against Mandy wasn’t ever really in doubt.”
“More swift justice.”
“It’s the only kind that works out here.” Then, without a pause, “So what will it be, Mr. Smith?”
“Seems like I don’t have much of a choice.”
“Of course you have a choice. Everyone has a choice.”
Smith smiled.
The Judge returned it.
“I’ll need a gun,” Smith said.
“Of course you will,” the Judge said.
Eighteen
“So this is how it works in Gaffney, huh?” Smith asked.
“Just about,” Hobson said.
“No wonder you guys are so popular with your neighbors.”
“We get by.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because I took you for a decent man when we first met.”
“Did you, now?”
“I guess I was wrong.”
“I guess you were.”
Smith smiled and nodded, even as he thought, I’ll keep that in mind when we’re standing across from each other with guns in our hands, sheriff.
After The Purge, AKA John Smith Box Set | Books 1-3 Page 26
