The best spot ended up being across the bridge and down the road about sixty yards. That section of the road was secluded and no one should be able to see whoever was sent to retrieve the items. Even though it wasn't a long walk from the house, it took them a good bit of time to carry the numerous garbage bags, sacks, and buckets into the woods and stack them. In their exhausted state, they were staggering, falling, and dropping things pretty frequently by the time they were done.
Once they had everything they wanted from the house, they stretched a tarp across the pile, then put a sheet of black plastic on top of that. The plastic was weighted down with branches and fallen leaves until it was mostly indistinguishable from the terrain around it. From the road, no one would be able to tell that there was a cache hidden only a dozen yards away from them. When they were done, they sat down on a large boulder near their horses.
“I’m almost too tired to climb on that beast,” Conor said. “I’m about ready to just grab his tail and let him drag me home.”
“Then let’s mount up,” Wayne said, getting to his feet. “The longer we sit there, the harder it will get. Then one of us will pass out and we’ll be laying there in the morning like a couple of drunks.”
“It’s almost morning,” Conor said, glancing at his watch.
Wayne grabbed Conor by the sleeve and tugged. Conor struggled to his feet and limped to his horse. “I’m feeling too old for this tonight.”
“You’ll be fine after some sleep.”
It took Conor three strong lunges with his foot in the stirrup to finally muster enough momentum to spring onto the back of his horse. Wayne was laughing so hard that he had to wipe tears from his eyes. They carried no bags of goods with them, only their personal gear. The sun would be up before they made it back to the firehouse and they didn’t want to draw the attention of anyone moving around at this early hour. With sacks of loot strapped to their horses they would appear to be men who’d been out stealing. That was the last thing they wanted to look like in a day when everyone was armed and there was no law. People were inclined to shoot first and sort through the details later.
They kept their weapons at the ready and rode without headlamps. Though it wasn’t light yet, the sky was already changing color. The horses were familiar with this trip by now and needed no guidance. For the first time, Conor understood how cowboys fell asleep in the saddle. Exhausted as he was, riding in the dark, the rocking motion of the horse was both hypnotic and lulling.
Wayne must have been feeling the same way because he started talking. "We should reach the firehouse just in time for breakfast.”
Conor rubbed his eyes and yawned. "Can't decide if I’d be more excited about a meal or a bed at this point."
"Well, the quality of the meal depends on who's cooking and how creative they can get with what they have available. I can offer you a spot to stretch out by the fire but it can be a little noisy around the firehouse this time of day. It’s cool enough that everyone stays inside. I can make all the threats I want but once the kids are up it’s hard to keep them quiet."
"That's okay. I think I'm just going to head back to my place. If I get too tired on the way, I'll just peel off into the woods and find me a secluded spot to stretch out. I’ve got a bivy sack with me and I’m no stranger to sleeping on the ground."
"You’re going to come back to meet those guys with the steam generator, right?"
Conor nodded, which was complicated by another yawn he could not stifle. "Give me a day or two. I’m old and don’t snap back from missing a night’s sleep like I used to. As soon as I’ve recovered, I’ll be back."
"That's good enough. No hurry."
They reached an intersection where Wayne was going to head right to the firehouse and Conor was going to head left toward Pastor White’s camp and, beyond that, his own place. They paused for a moment.
“I wish there was an alternative route by the pastor’s camp,” Conor said. “Just getting by that place is going to take more energy than I have. They told me last night the pastor would probably want to talk to me about what happened to Miss Fannie Bell.”
“There’s no way by their camp without bushwhacking on the far side of the river. You could do it on foot but it’s probably too rough for a horse.”
Conor chuckled at himself. “If you only knew some of the things I’ve done in my life, Wayne. Some of the truly evil fuckers I’ve stared down. Some of the situations I’ve been in. I reckon I can face one scrawny preacher. I might as well get on with it and take my medicine.”
“Say hi for me,” Wayne said with a sarcastic smirk, turning his horse away and giving Conor a wave. “Thanks for the help.”
18
Conor was exhausted nearly to the point of hallucinating when he neared Pastor White’s camp. He felt disoriented, as if he’d slept through part of the ride. That concerned him. While he might be able to ride in his sleep, he highly doubted he could shoot and otherwise defend himself in that state. The morning sun was warm on his back and increased his desire to crawl off into the underbrush to sleep. Two guards manned the entrance. As his bleary eyes struggled to focus, the two blended into one and he realized it was but a single man. The guard was scrawny, with sharp, hawkish features, a bowl haircut, and a scowl that Conor assumed was triggered by Conor’s appearance at his assigned duty station.
“What do you want?” the guard demanded, his voice thick with disdain. He obviously knew who Conor was and didn’t approve.
It was the same snarky tone Bernard had used earlier but Conor was less patient. He was tired and hangry. “What’s your name, son?”
“It’s Jackson and I ain’t your son, old man. If I was I’d probably throw myself in that river and kill myself.”
Conor sighed. “You might not have to, Jackson. I might do it for you. I’m a tired man. When I’m tired my patience wears thin and my judgment slips. I do things I sometimes regret later. If you persist with the attitude, I’m going to snap your spine and shove your head up your own arse. Now you may think that’s an idle threat, that such a thing couldn’t be done, but let me assure you that it can. In fact I’ve done it. It requires a little trimming with a sharp knife to make everything fit just right but it’s a sight that leaves a strong impression. Now tell me, is that how you want to be remembered by your loved ones? Found in the middle of the road with your head shoved up your own bunghole?”
“No sir,” Jackson admitted, his brows crinkling as he imagined his family finding him in such a state.
Conor was impressed at the sudden improvement in the young man’s attitude. It was almost magical how quickly people cooperated once you planted a disturbing image of their own death in someone’s brain. Jackson was a fast learner. His parents should be proud.
“What I need is to speak with Pastor White. I returned Miss Fannie Bell to you people last night and was told the pastor might have some questions. I’m back to check on her and answer any questions the pastor might have. I’m exhausted, but I had to pass by here anyway, so I decided to stop.”
“The pastor might be busy,” Jackson said.
Conor’s face registered his disappointment. He let out a long exhalation. “Jackson, I thought we were making such progress. Well, you had your chance. Let the pastor know I was by but you turned me away.” Conor nudged his horse and started back toward the road.
“No!” Jackson cried. “Hold on for a minute. Don’t leave.”
Conor stopped.
“I just meant that I ain’t seen him in a little bit. I’m not sure what he’s doing.”
“You find him now, boy. I’m growing weary of you.”
“I ain’t supposed to leave my post.”
“I’ll watch your post until you get back but make it snappy. I warned you, lad. My patience is slipping.”
Not wanting to find out what an impatient Conor was like, Jackson flew from the gate, gangly and bandy-legged in his running. It was perhaps the most inelegant movement Conor had ever seen from a pers
on in possession of all their faculties. Conor’s eyes strayed around the camp, which was comprised of the church, a large picnic shelter, and a few tents. There were smoky fires for cooking and warmth. One heated a washtub for laundry or bathing. Women bundled in warm clothing cooked together over another. Around a third, stiff men stood circled and clannish, giving Conor a wary side-eye.
These people had always been distrustful of him. It was their way, both due to the insular nature of the community and their role as protectors. He was an outsider. An unknown. All they knew of him was violence and that he had a daughter who’d assaulted one of their own. They didn’t like him and didn’t trust him.
“Conor Maguire.”
Conor turned toward the voice and found Pastor White closing in on him. The greeting was neither warm nor antagonistic. It did come with a slight hissing sound though. Pastor White still couldn’t fully open his jaw thanks to Barb’s vicious kick. Conor dismounted and stood with his reins in his hand. The pastor didn’t come close and neither man extended a hand to the other in greeting. This was a meeting of tolerance, an exchange of information. A lot of fences would have to be mended before there was anything resembling trust between the two parties.
“Pastor White,” Conor replied with a nod. “I wanted to check on Miss Fannie Belle.”
Jackson stood behind the pastor, unsure of what to do with himself. He shifted nervously, gripping his gun too tightly.
“You can go stand with the other men, Jackson,” the pastor said. “Leave Mr. Maguire and I to talk for a moment.”
Jackson did as he was told, casting a wary eye at Conor as he departed. It could have been fear, or a warning not to further injure the spiritual patriarch of this community. Conor paid the lad no mind.
“I have a doctor living at my place,” Conor said. “I thought I might send him over to check in on her. The leg wound could kill her if that infection isn’t brought under control.”
“That would be appreciated. We’ve cleaned and fed her, prayed and cared for her. As you’ve said, she’ll need medications that we don’t have. We’d be obliged to you, as we already are for your role in bringing her home.”
“No offense, but we wouldn’t be doing it for you. She’s a sweet lady and I’d like to see her come back from this. She has to be tough as nails to endure what he put her through.”
“She’s not told us much about it. She’s a proud lady. From what I hear about her wounds, the conditions must have been rough.”
“More than rough, they were deplorable. Shuck Lampkins had her chained like a vicious dog. She was naked and cold. I watched him beat her down. He was preparing to stomp on her head when I put a bullet in him.”
The pastor flinched at Conor’s blunt portrayal of both the scene he found and the manner in which he addressed it. “My people said Bernard was killed too?”
“Shuck booby-trapped his bridge. We tried to keep Bernard from rushing across but he wouldn’t listen to us. He fell through the bridge and hit his head on a rock. He died instantly.”
“Were you able to retrieve the body for his parents? For a proper burial?”
“Shuck dragged him into the river. He may never be found. For his actions, we offered no Christian burial to Shuck either. I tossed him into the river like the sack of garbage he was.”
The pastor nodded, processing this. The bruising on his face was starting to go away, faded to yellow, but not completely gone. Conor would have sworn Barb left the print of her bootlaces on the man’s face.
“Well, it’s done,” Pastor White said with finality, as if it weren’t the way he would have done it but there was no fixing it now.
Conor yawned and it caught the pastor’s attention.
“You best get on home,” he said. “You say you’ll return with your doctor?”
Conor nodded. “Tomorrow, I think. I may be able to send him back here today but I won’t be with him. I need sleep. Lots of it.” Conor positioned himself to remount his horse. He had to gather himself for it, the act nearly requiring more effort than he had on tap.
“Mr. Maguire?”
Conor paused, one foot in the stirrup, both hands grasping the saddle horn.
“If you can’t bring the doctor yourself, I reckon I’d prefer he come alone. I ain’t ready to face that daughter of yours yet. No offense to you but it’s a sore spot.” The pastor gently stroked his jaw. “A very sore spot.”
With an awkward motion, Conor launched himself onto the horse’s back. He settled himself and adjusted his hands on the reins. “I understand that and I’ll make sure they know. At some point you two may have to make peace though. This isn’t a very big community.”
The pastor shrugged, wincing when the movement caused a sharp pain in his jaw. “I’ll be praying on it.”
19
As exhausted as he was, Conor could not pass by Johnny Jacks’ house without stopping. He may have been a hardened killer, an assassin of men, but he hadn’t been raised to be rude and to have passed by the older man’s home without stopping would simply have been rude. Besides, he had an idea brewing that he wanted to run by Johnny.
He turned at the driveway, paused to yawn for the millionth time, and unlocked the gate. The creaking hinges would alert the family to his presence as surely as if he were to sound a horn. He awkwardly closed the gate without dismounting and, when he faced the house, found Jason Jacks waving to him from the porch.
Conor allowed his horse to walk the distance at its own pace, letting him cool down from the ride. By the time he reached the house, the rest of the family was also standing on the porch waiting on him. All showed signs of healing injuries. Sam’s face was scratched from the treatment she received during her abduction. Johnny had a colorful bruise to the side of his face and looked like the porch rail was all that was holding him upright. That the man was still alive and upright after taking several bullets was a testament to his toughness. Certainly Doc Marty and Shannon had made a valiant effort to keep the man alive, but it was his own grit that pulled him through it.
Jason was the worst of any of them, having fought with all he had in an attempt to stop Sam’s abduction. In the process, he’d lost many of his teeth and his mouth looked like he’d been snacking on gravel. His lips were no longer swollen but had been split in three places. His face was a roadmap of cuts and scrapes joined by bruises. He’d given up on shaving because the skin was so damaged. A beard would help conceal what were certain to be permanent scars.
“You look like shit, lad,” Conor said.
“You should see the other guy,” Jason quipped.
“I did,” Conor replied. “Pretty sure I killed him.”
Despite the grim nature of their conversation, there were smiles on every face. It was battlefield humor which might appear misplaced in such a pastoral setting, on the porch of a country farmhouse amid rolling pastures, but it was not. That was part of the nature of this apocalypse they were all entrenched in. The calm could be deceptive. The battlefield could be anywhere now, the enemy anyone with a weapon and bad intentions.
“You don’t look so good yourself,” Sam said. “You look like you’re about to fall off that horse. You drunk this early in the morning?”
Conor laughed at that. He rarely drank, preferring to have his wits about him in his line of work. He never wanted to be laying about drunk when someone with a grudge decided to take their revenge. “Drunk with exhaustion, Sam dear. I’ve not slept since I left here yesterday.”
“Why not?” Johnny asked. “Run into trouble?”
Conor sighed. “It’s a long story and I’d like to sit down to tell it, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to climb back on me horse.”
“We’ll help you,” Jason offered. “Join us in the house. We’ve got some cold sweet tea. It might give you just the boost you need.”
“Sweet tea?” Conor asked, an eyebrow cocked eagerly. He resembled a miser being offered a bag of gold.
Sam winked. “Just like Bojangles makes it.�
�� She’d heard of his weakness for Bojangles.
Conor grinned and slid from his horse. “Missy, you surely know the way to a man’s heart.” He tied his horse off to the porch rail and pulled himself up the steps. He followed the family inside and took a seat on the couch. He noticed it was a new one, brought in to replace the one Johnny’s wife had died on.
Sam went to the kitchen and was back in a few minutes with a plastic milk jug of sweet tea and several tall glasses. “This house has a spring box in the basement. I’ve seen a lot of old houses with spring boxes in a dairy or spring house, but this one is more convenient. We’ll have cold tea all next summer.”
“My parents built this house just after they got married in the 1920s,” Johnny said. “That was a modern convenience at the time. Kind of like us having a refrigerator in the kitchen. By the time I came along it was just a novelty. I liked playing in it when I was a kid.”
With his first sip of the sweet tea, Conor felt like an intravenous solution of some magic elixir had been introduced into his body and he groaned. “That’s good stuff.” He crossed his legs and leaned back on the couch, relishing the moment.
Sam smiled. “Thank you.”
“That blood on your shoe?” Jason asked.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Guess I should have taken my boots off before I came in.”
“That’s okay,” Jason said. “I was just wondering how it got there.”
Conor launched into the story of Miss Fannie Bell and Shuck. He mentioned how he needed to send Doc Marty back to check on her so they might expect a visit from him when he headed over this way.
“And there’s one more thing,” Conor added. “A favor if I might be so bold.”
“You can ask anything,” Johnny said. “This family owes you and we honor our debts.”
Brutal Business: Book Three in the Mad Mick Series Page 12
