David the deadman.
Honestly, he didn’t need the liquid courage, that fun-tastic firewater, but it sure as hell helped. It calmed him, helped him think. Relax. Plan. An injection of much-needed patience.
And with that liquor-induced patience, he sat, forearms on the bar, shoulders slouched, head down. Fingers clutching glass. Thinking. Wishing. Missing.
Behind him, across the room, neglected hinges announced the presence of another. Perhaps someone else seeking refuge from a heart destroyed by another’s careless actions. Or perhaps it was the dead.
Or perhaps the good folks from Alamo Assisted Living and Retirement were after a bit of their own recreational elixir.
Wouldja looky here, Billy Joe Bob!
Well whudduhya know, Uncle Rufus. He was here all along.
Shore nuff. Shall we shoot ‘im now or have that drank first?
Well, I reckon we oughta have us a cold one, first, don’tcha think?
Well I—
Whispers. Sand and dirt, stuck to the bottoms of soles, like sandpaper scuffing the hardwood. More whispers.
Tom’s breathing stilled, hand clutching the bottle, his solace. He wasn’t in the mood for company, especially unannounced and unknown—alive or dead. He lifted his chin only slightly, catching sight of silhouettes in the mirror behind the bar.
Had they found him already? Maybe he didn’t give those damnable souls cowering within the walls and halls of Alamo Assisted Living their due credit. Underestimated the enemy, as it were. He thought back to Sammy and Gills, two murderous double-crossing scoundrels he’d sold short. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. Ever.
A presence. Directly behind him. A barrel in his back. A nudge. The distinct scent of marijuana mixed with that of his own cigarettes and booze.
“Hey.”
Tom fed the silence, gave the glass a squeeze, preparing to smash it across some insolent asshole’s face if need be.
Another nudge, harder this time. “Hey… cowboy. I’m talking to you, man.”
Tom never lifted his head. “I’ll not have you poke me like some feral animal.” Despite his best efforts, the words tripped over his tongue, stumbling, before spilling over his lips.
A light laugh, then the same voice. “You hear that, Mallory? He lives.”
“I dunno, home skillet. Seems like I heard one of them deadies talk before.”
Doc felt the barrel’s lip kiss his leather-clad back again.
“So which is it, man? You a talking live one, or a talking dead one?”
A woman’s voice. “He’s a talking drunk one. Leave him alone already.”
“Aw, hell, naw. You remember what happened last time, Laura. Ain’t gonna let that happen again. Naw, this one’s gonna prove—”
“TJ,” the woman said, “chill the fuck out already. Quit trying to be all gangster and shit.”
The man Laura called TJ huffed, propped the shotgun stock on his hip, barrel to the ceiling. Another huff, then he took two steps back.
The stool beside Tom creaked, the woman sitting. She laced her fingers on top of the bar, where Tom could easily see them. “Sorry, man. We’re all a bit jumpy. Dealt with some real assholes today.”
The one named Mallory chuckled a most annoying, high-pitched laugh. “Yeah, some major-league assholes, dude.”
Tom sat silently, his gaze glued to the bar before him, an awkward heaviness on the air. He was ruminating on the quickest way to kill these three, until TJ made a curious comment.
“Right on. Whatever the fuck you do, don’t go up the hill looking for the cool crowd. Those fuckers holed up in that old folks home kicked us to the fucking curb, man.”
Tom twisted his head slightly, cutting a sideways glance at Laura. “That so?”
Laura nodded, holding up two fingers. “He speaks the truth. Girl Scouts honor.”
“Why, do tell,” Tom prompted. He loosened his grip on the bottle.
TJ continued. “We were chill, ya know? All willing to help with whatever. But that big dude, Lenny? Total prick, man. Always on our shit, man.”
Mallory chimed in. “Yeah, total hater. No love for the ganja. And that fat-ass dude, Randy, or whatever, following him around like some fat fucking puppy dog.”
Randy. They know Randy.
“Anyhoo,” Laura said, “them people have some serious issues, keeping deadies locked up in the tennis courts and even have some in an empty pool. Fucked up, man. Tee-totally fucked up.”
TJ said, “And we ain’t the only people they got issues with, neither. Some dude cut off some other dude’s wife’s hand, stuck that fucker in a box and gave it to one of the kids—”
Mallory cackled, fist to his lips.
“Shut up, man,” TJ chided. “I’m telling a fucking story, here.”
The cackling slowed, and Mallory held up his hand. “Sorry… sorry, home skillet.” Clearing his throat, he folded his arms over his chest.
TJ said, “You done?”
Mallory nodded tight, little nods. “Mmm, hmm.”
“Anyway, dude chopped off this chick’s hand, delivered it to the kid. Sick shit, right? I heard when the guy got it, he went fucking ballistic. Beyond bat shit crazy, man. Blew a couple guys’ heads off or some shit.” He whistled while twirling a finger near his temple.
Something inside Tom flittered. Butterflies. Happy, sparkling butterflies. David was suffering, heading toward Crazy Town. Mentally collapsing into a pile of emotional rubble. He wanted to hear more, so much more about David’s breakdown. To be absolutely sure it was him. Though who else could these three possibly be speaking of?
“—were outside, and I totally shot that fucker from way out—”
“David?” Tom asked, spinning on his stool to face TJ.
“Huh?”
“David? Was the man’s name, David? David Morris?”
“I think so. I guess so.”
“Was he about six foot tall? Early to mid-forties, maybe? Brown hair, sideburns going silver?”
TJ glanced at his buddies, then at Tom. Shrugging, he said, “I guess, man. Didn’t get a real good look at the dude. Was high most of the time we were there and he was laid up in bed—”
Mallory laughed again.
“Dude!” Laura said. “Shut the fuck up, already!”
“Sorry, sorry.”
TJ said, “I do remember he was some kind of fucked up, though. Somebody beat the ever-living shit out of that guy. Head was wrapped up, one eye covered. Face sewed up. Fucker was black and blue and purple and green and…”
Sammy and Gills. They didn’t kill him. Fucked him up real good, but didn’t kill him. Bryan had told the truth. Good boy.
Tom tuned out TJ’s maundering for a moment. He just knew that David was alive and residing inside the facility. He hadn’t found his body at Mitch’s, for one thing. And even though Sam and Gills could have easily killed David and dumped him along the road somewhere, he just didn’t think so. Those two thugs thrived and relied on bluster and threats. Maybe if they actually followed through…
He sat, relishing David’s torment and anguish. He wanted things to get bad for David. Really, really bad. No, worse. And another idea came to mind. One that these three could—and would—assist with. Whether they wanted to, or not.
“—fucking Doc Holliday or some shit—”
Tom snapped back into the one-sided conversation. “Pardon me?”
TJ looked a bit perturbed, like he was tired of having to stop and repeat himself. “You listening to me, man? Your, uh, tank a little too full there?” he asked, pointing to the whiskey bottle still in Tom’s loose grip.
“What was that last part? About… Doc… Holliday?”
Smiling a smug smile, TJ said, “Yeah, so we was helping out, right? Trying to find that dude, the one that cut off the hand, right? You with me?”
Tom nodded.
“Good to hear it. Anyway, me and my home crew, here, we was behind the fence, the main fence up by the building. And the wood
s are, like, I dunno, two hundred yards away, right? And I see the guy, this Doc Holliday asshole.”
“Mmm, hmm.” Tom made a show of swigging his whiskey while inconspicuously reaching into his coat. Then he unsnapped the thumb break that kept Bessie securely in her holster. And gripped her handle. Hard.
Laura glimpsed the bottle, asking without asking if she could take a swallow herself. Tom nodded, handing it to her.
“So I line up the sights, and… bam! Downed that motherfucker where he stood. Bye-bye, Doc Holliday.”
“Actually,” Mallory interjected, “it was the second shot.”
“Whatever, fool. Fact is, I tagged that asshole from behind the fence at two-hundred-plus yards. You sure as hell couldn’t’ve done it.”
“Well done,” Tom said, releasing his gun, and giving a golf clap.
“That’s right,” TJ said, still boasting. “Motherfucker better recognize. Least you appreciate it, uh… what was your name, man?”
Tom said flatly, “Doc. Doc Holliday.”
TJ’s features tensed, and the group traded uneasy glances. Seconds stretched, a discomfiting quiet seizing the room and all in it. A smile cracked TJ’s lips. Then an uneasy, light laugh. “Doc. Right.” He continued his uncomfortable laugh, wagging a finger at the man purporting to be Doc Holliday. “Right. Doc Holliday. Good one, man. Good one.” His chuckle morphed into an uncontrollable guffaw.
Like a merry-go-round, Mallory’s giggle started slow, then wound up into a full blown cackle, and he slapped TJ on the back. “Doc Holliday. Good one, cowboy dude! Pound it!” He held his fist to Doc, and Doc simply glanced at it, then stared coldly, a stare broken only by the occasional blink.
Mallory’s laugh trailed off. “Or not. Ya know. Whatever.”
Tom looked from one man to the other, his own smile emerging, which reignited TJ and Mallory’s dueling chuckles.
The corners of Laura’s lips tilted to the ceiling, and her lungs pushed out a stuttering laugh, adding to the chorus of howls and hoots now slapping the walls.
TJ wiped at his eyes.
Mallory was bent over, hands on his knees, shoulders shaking. He waved a hand. “You’re killing me, home skillet. Killing me. Doc Fucking Holliday!”
Finally, after another minute or so, the laughter subsided into intermittent snickers and squawks.
Continuing, TJ said, “Well, Doc,”—he snickered again—“at least you appreciate what I did. Those assholes just chewed our asses for it. Cussed us real good for killing that dude—the real Doc.” He shook his head. “Fucking hypocrites.”
Clearing his throat, Tom said, “So, you fine folks have a rather rocky relationship with those residing at Alamo Assisted Living and Retirement, I gather.”
“Fucking A, Doc Dude Number Two,” Mallory said, finally calming down. “Ass. Holes.”
Laura said, “We got them back pretty good though. Didn’t we, boys?”
“Yeah,” TJ said, “Fuckers gonna rue the goddamn day they fucked with us.”
“And why is that?”
“‘Cuz we turned all them deadies loose on their stupid asses, that’s why.”
Mallory laughed. So did TJ. And Laura.
Reading Tom’s perplexed expression, TJ elaborated. “Before we left, we busted the lock on the tennis courts. Left the door wide open. All them deadies probably surrounding the place now. If we’d had a way to get them outta the pool quick and easy, we’d’ve turned them fuckers loose, too.”
Another round of riotous laughter.
Tom nodded, “Well, sounds like you folks stuck it to them right nicely, I’d say.”
“Fucking A. Like I said, they gonna rue the fucking day, man.” TJ nodded at Tom’s whiskey bottle, held out his hand.
Hesitantly, Tom handed it to him.
After a hearty swig, he ran the back of his hand across his lips and said, “Wish I could see their stupid-ass faces now.”
Tom narrowed his eyes, then said, “How would you three like to do just that?” Taking the bottle back from TJ, he added, “Up close and personal?”
The trio traded unsure glances.
Laura said, “We really hadn’t planned on going back.”
“Yeah,” TJ said, shifting on his feet, “our work there is done, man. Anyway, what’s your beef with them assholes? They kick your ass to the curb, too, Doc?”
Mallory giggled again, muttered, “Doc.”
Tom emptied the remaining whiskey into his mouth, swished, swallowed, slammed the bottle to the bar top. Standing, he dragged the sleeve of his leather coat across his lips. “Got something to show you.”
The trio didn’t know it, but the voices inside Doc’s head were making sense again. And he was listening. Closely.
* * *
“Laura, dahlin’,” Doc said. “Be a sweetheart, and bring me the box that’s in the front seat of my truck, please?”
Sliding off the stool, Laura said, “Um, alright. Sure.”
“You’re a daisy.” He reached into his coat pocket, producing a set of keys. He shook them, and they jingled a happy metallic song. “Bug-B-Gone.”
She looked at him with a quizzical expression. “What?”
“My current mode of transportation. Ford Ranger. The one with ‘Bug-B-Gone’ on the doors.”
“Oh, okay.” She started across the bar.
TJ said, “You an exterminator or something, there, Doc?”
Cracking himself up, Mallory screeched, “Who ya gonna call? Bug-Busters!”
Unamused, Tom blinked long droopy blinks at Mallory for several uncomfortably long seconds, before turning and answering Toby Jack. “You could say that, TJ.”
About to push through the front door, Laura said, “You lock your truck?”
“Can’t be too careful.” He dipped his chin at the door. “The box, dahlin’. With haste.”
She furrowed her brow at him, then disappeared through the doors.
“So whatcha gonna show us?” asked TJ.
“Patience young sniper, patience.”
TJ fished something from his shirt pocket. “You mind if we…?” He finished his question by nodding at a joint pinched delicately between his fingers.
Doc eyed it a moment, then decided against an anti-drug sermon, despite his vehement detestation of the vice. Besides, it would probably end up being the last joint they ever smoked if things went according to plan. So why not let them leave this world in a happier, albeit artificially altered mood?
He dipped his chin. “By all means.”
“Right on, Doc Dude,” Mallory said, big smile beneath his sunglasses.
TJ set down his shotgun and pulled out a Bic, started to light the marijuana cigarette, then said, “You know, man? You’re alright. That Alamo place would be hella cool if you ran it, ya know?”
The door squeaked open, and Laura slipped back inside, brown cardboard box hooked under one arm.
“That was quick,” TJ said, “We were just about to fire one up.” He held the twisted paper up so she could see. Enunciating clearly, he asked, “Care to partake of the herb, my lady?”
She crossed the room a little more quickly, handed the box to Doc along with his keys, then took the joint from TJ. After tucking it between her lips, Toby Jack lit it for her, and she pulled in a deep breath.
“So,” she said, sounding choked, “what’s in the box, Doc?”
Another giggle from Mallory. “What’s up, Doc?” He was snorting uncontrollably through his nose, like his lips were superglued shut. How Tom wished this were true. Then maybe Mallory wouldn’t scream when Doc pistol-whipped him to death for being an idiot.
Instead, Tom set the box on the bar top, then stood beside it, propping himself on one elbow. “This,” he said, pointing, “is one piece of a glorious puzzle. Metaphorically and literally.”
Laura handed off the joint to Mallory, who took it, drew in a breath, and asked, “Puzzle? What kind of puzzle?”
“Ah.” He held up a forefinger before he squared the box on t
he bar top, admiring it. “Perhaps a more suitable question would be: who is the puzzle for?”
Shrugging, Laura said, “Okay. I’ll bite. Who’s the puzzle for?”
Doc smiled, stepped away from the bar. “David Morris. And he currently resides at Alamo Assisted Living and Retirement.”
TJ raised a brow. “The beat-up dude?”
Tom nodded. And he could visualize the rusty gears grinding against one another inside the stoner’s head as something clicked. Swore he could actually smell it. Then, dismissed it as the smoke from his joint.
“You mean… the guy that got… the box with…”
Doc wanted the full effect, for them to put the pieces together themselves. It was painfully slow going, as pieces of another puzzle started dropping into place inside TJ’s head. His expression must have clued in the other two, because the same dull bulb of realization slowly lit their eyes through the haze hovering inside the bar.
“Holy motherfucking shit,” TJ said. “You are that Doc Holliday son of a bitch. You wasn’t fucking fooling.”
Mallory still seemed a tad lost, or maybe he was just trying to convince himself otherwise. “But you shot him, home skillet,” he said to TJ. “Blasted him, remember? Brains all against that tree.” He lifted his chin at Doc. “Can’t be the same dude. Ain’t no way.”
Laura took two steps back, a wavering finger aimed unsteadily at the box. “There’s a fucking hand in there, ain’t there? Ain’t there? Or some other… body part… fucking foot or some shit, right? Somebody’s ear? Their head?” Her voice cracked, tears priming themselves.
Doc only stared, neither confirming nor denying their guesses. His hands had moved to his guns.
“You gonna chop us up, too? Huh? That what you get off on, huh? You sick fuck.” TJ looked around, realized he’d laid his shotgun down on a table near the bar, and would never reach it in time.
Finally, Doc spoke. “Now TJ. What an ugly thing to say to me. I’m no butcher. I do not frolic about the countryside, hacking folks into little bitty pieces. Why, I find your accusation disrespectful and simply untrue.”
Finding her voice again, Laura said, “Then… what’s in the box?”
Dead South Rising (Book 2): Death Row Page 12
