by Brian Hodge
"I spent half my life looking for you, Cates. So listen up, you're going to talk to me." Earl picked up the skinning knife, reached over, and calmly sliced off Cates' left ear. He tossed it onto the bound man's stomach. "Maybe you can hear me a little better now."
Cates looked with disbelief at his severed ear lying on his stomach. A big greasy tear slid down his cheek and landed on his stomach, mixing with the blood already there. "She turned me down," Cates said. "She was just a goddamned Indian squaw, who did she think she was, turning me down? I hit her but I didn't kill her."
"You're a liar." Earl sliced off Cates' remaining ear. "I caught up with the other renegade just outside Abilene last year. The last one besides you. We didn't get to talk all that much, on account of he shot himself. Trouble was, his aim hadn't improved any since the last time we met. He did live long enough to tell me you didn't have nothing to do with the squaw. He said you didn't much like women at all. At least not grown ones."
"He's a liar. It wasn't me."
"Here's what I think happened. Just nod your head if I get close to the truth."
Cates tried to pull away, thrashing against his bonds like a madman.
"You raped her, didn't you, Cates, even though she was just a little girl. Only you had to get around a problem first. She was an Indian and her skin was red and that made you sick to your stomach, but you found a way to handle that, didn't you?" Earl raised the heavy pistol and brought it down on Cates' leg. Bone splintered. "Her skin was the problem"—the pistol raised again, fell again—"so you skinned her."
Earl severed the ropes and Cates slumped to the ground. Somehow the big rancher had managed to hold on to consciousness as Earl righted the wagon and hitched up the mules. Cates watched while his roan was tied on behind the wagon. "You're not going to leave me here, are you?" he called out to the departing wagon. "It's three days' ride to the next town. I can't walk… my legs are broken. You promised you'd kill me quick if I told the truth."
Earl looked back once and saw that Cates was trying his best to keep up with the mules. But it was hard going for a man who had two broken legs, who had to crawl on his stomach across the sand.
After a while it came to Earl what Cates looked like.
He looked like a snake.
When Earl made camp three hours later, he fell into an exhausted sleep. His dreams were peaceful for the first time in more years than he could remember.
The dog's yelp woke him.
Earl rolled out of his blankets with a gun under his nose, and when he looked into the man's pale face, he was met with a smile. There wasn't much friendliness in it. "Cates wasn't lying," the stranger said. "He never touched the little girl. It was three army deserters that did the killing. One of them told me everything before I…." The smile widened just a bit.
"Who are you?" Earl asked.
The stranger's smile practically split his face. "Steven Adler, I'm your new partner." He moved closer.
"If Cates didn't kill the little girl, then why did he come after me tonight?" Earl tried to back away and found he couldn't.
"You hunted down and killed a lot of innocent men, Earl. They were Cates' friends. That's the reason he came after you. You've spent half your life looking for the men who killed that little girl. I admire your persistence and I like the way you use a knife." The young stranger was laughing now. "I can use a man like you, so I've decided we're going to be together for a long time. A long, long time," the stranger repeated, as though he had just said something funny.
Earl felt a sharp sting on his neck and for an instant he thought the old diamondback had gotten loose and had bitten him. He knew he was a dead man because he hadn't milked that snake in three days, but it wasn't the snake that had bitten him. It was the blond stranger.
The last thing Earl Jacobs saw before he began his new life were the teeth covered with red, the teeth that were too long and caught the moonlight.
He wished many times since that night that the snake had bitten him instead.
Reaching for his boot, Earl pulled out his knife. The light reflected off the blade and caught him in the eyes. They filled with sadness.
"Jesus Christ," Steven said, looking at Earl in disgust. He took the knife from Earl's shaky hand and prepared to cut Leon Wilson's throat. "You're not supposed to get sentimental over your dinner."
"I'm not getting sentimental," Earl answered. "It's just that Leon Wilson is a good man and I like him, okay? You're not going to kill him. We have a deal, remember." Earl stepped in front of Steven. "No more killing unless we absolutely have to.''
Steven put the knife to Leon's throat.
"You do him and I'm walking," Earl said calmly.
"You're forgetting who's the boss here, aren't you?"
"No, I ain't forgetting, but you kill him and I'm taking a walk in the daylight."
"You're bluffing."
"Try me. This ain't much of a life, no way."
Steven relented, pulled the knife back. "No reason to kill him. I scared him enough to get what I came for. That fake hand in the jar made him spill his guts."
"Yeah, it worked real good. He almost spilled mine, too."
"Sorry. He was quick for a big guy." Steven straightened Earl's jacket, slapped him on the shoulder. He smiled at Earl, searching the older man's eyes. "You're not going to take a walk on me, are you?"
"Not unless you break our deal."
"All right, we'll drag him over to the steps, and when he wakes up in the morning, he'll think he fell. But right now, hurry up and get yourself a little taste. We've got to shag our asses over to Crowder Flats."
The knife went to work.
Chapter 6
John Warrick eased the phone back onto its cradle and lay back on his bed. Louise's words wouldn't quite sink in. An under aged male prostitute in Vegas, stabbed and left to die, all his blood found spattered on a wall. What kind of man could do something like that?
Why?
Kicks?
The cue stick lying on a chair across the room caught his gaze. The red feathered serpent curled around the handle seemed angry and peered at him with baleful eyes.
Accusing him.
The stick belonged to whoever had killed Joey Estevez. The boy had been killed for fun. And for something else. His blood?
John didn't want to think about that. He looked away from the chair, his eyes straying to the ceiling, but that was no good either. The afternoon sun was spilling through the window and it had given the water stains a reddish tint.
That room in Vegas had been covered in blood.
The walls were closing in on him again and his head began to throb. What the hell was he going to do? John didn't know the killer's name; he barely even knew what the guy looked like.
Okay, say he went to cops and accused the guy. It was his word against the stranger's. John knew his word didn't carry any weight, not since he'd pulled that job in Tucson. He'd been a kid at the time, but cops had long memories. Suppose they asked him a few pointed questions about how come he knew so much about the murder.
What would he say that he knew the guy did it because he, John Warrick, was some kind of half-assed psychic? That he had just happened to pick up some weird vibrations from a stolen pool cue? If the cops didn't stick him in a padded room, they might arrest him for the kid's death.
John was in over his head and he knew he was in over his head. It was time to pack it in.
But the memory of the dead kid wouldn't turn loose. He had to do something.
Maybe Leon could shed some light on who those guys from the pool hall were. John fished a doughnut out of the crushed bag while he dialed the phone.
Marvin, the assistant manager answered. "Leon's," he said in his high, hoarse voice. The sound of clicking balls came through in the background.
"Hey Marvin, this is John Warrick."
"John, damn, everybody was wondering where you went. I got a message from Leon for you. He says you are one crazy son of a bitch stealing from
those guys last night. He says he's gonna kick you right in your bony white ass the next time he lays eyes on you."
"I guess he's really pissed."
"You got that right." Marvin's voice dropped a notch. "I was in the back. Did Leon really introduce those guys to old Stumpy?"
"You mean the sawed-off? Yes, he did."
"They say he cocked both hammers." Marvin sounded almost wistful.
"These guys were kind of scary," John said.
"Shit, man, I always miss all the excitement."
"You'd better be glad you missed it." John kept his voice casual. "I need to talk to Leon. Has he been in today?"
"No, he ain't. He better be getting his big butt in here real soon. I got some business to take care of over at Lisa's house." His voice lowered again. "I think I might get my balls racked tonight, if you get my drift."
Somebody laughed in the background. "Rack these balls," a loud voice called out.
"Rack your own damn balls," Marvin yelled back. "Can't you see I'm on the phone?"
"Marvin, either one of those guys Leon kicked out last night been in?"
"No way. Leon said they ain't ever coming in here again." Someone at the pool hall said something and Marvin faded out, then came back on. "Hey look, John, I got to be going. You want I should have Leon give you a ring?"
"Yeah, he knows where I'm staying. See you 'round, Marvin." John felt the vise that held his head tighten another notch. This had started out as a simple theft and now he was involved with murder. Everything was moving way too fast. He was alone and the night was on its way again. Already shadows where beginning to creep out from the corners of the room. A day had passed and he still couldn't decide what to do about this mess.
A siren sounded in the distance, a plaintive cry that rose and then died away, leaving him more alone than ever.
He dialed Leon's house. On the fifth ring he got Leon's answering machine and the gravelly voice came on the line. "If this is the jerkweed who's been calling me about aluminum siding, I'm gonna find you and you're gonna need a can opener to take a shit." A slight pause. "Leave your message at the beep… and have a nice day."
A slight smile creased John's face and the desire to leave a message was strong, but he fought against it and hung up without saying a word. Leon's bluster didn't scare him any. He couldn't really say why he did it.
Where was Leon? The big man only went to two places. The grocery or the liquor store.
"He's fine," John said to himself, and yet he couldn't shake the feeling something had happened to his old friend.
The man who owned the cue stick was a stone-cold killer, and if he thought Leon had anything to do with its theft.
John struggled into his jacket, knowing he was going to Leon's house even though it was a very dangerous and stupid thing to do. He tucked the stick under his arm and closed the door behind himself. Before he cleared the lobby, Tommy, the rotund night clerk, called out to him. "John, hold up a sec. I didn't get a chance to tell you, there was two guys here last night looking for you."
"One of them young?" John asked. The taste of fear brushed the inside of his mouth, drying it instantly.
"Yeah, the other guy was older. Had on a jacket that looked like he slept in it."
"They say what they want?"
"No. They said they was friends of yours. Said they'd come back tonight to see you. The young guy said you had something for him."
John felt sweat prickle on his forehead. "Thanks, Tommy." He stuck a ten in the chubby hand. "They come back, tell them I checked out this morning. You don't know me. Okay?"
''You got it."
"I mean it, Tommy. Don't mess with these bastards."
Tommy tucked the ten in his shirt pocket, behind a Snickers that already resided there. "These two gentlemen wouldn't be in the collection business, would they?"
"You know how it is, Tommy. I got a little behind," John lied with what he hoped was an embarrassed grin. He spread his hands helplessly. "I ran into a little streak of bad luck last week. I just need these guys off my back until a few things come through." John figured it was easier to let Tommy believe what he wanted. And safer too.
The lie seemed to satisfy Tommy, who waddled back behind the counter and fished out the half-melted Snickers. He took a big bite, smearing chocolate all over his chin. In the fluorescent light it looked like blood.
The bright sunshine hurt John's eyes after being in the motel, but he didn't mind a bit. He hated the dark, always had. Growing up, he had slept with a night-light on until he was damn near twelve. A quick glance at his watch told him the sun would be setting in about two hours. The drive to Leon's house would take about half of that. Plenty of time before dark.
But then he hadn't counted on the flat tire.
John parked a couple of blocks away from Leon's small ranch-style house and walked. The area was lower middle class, sliding downhill fast, but still a few years away from bad. Kids rode by him on their bikes in the gathering darkness. Four high-schoolers were shooting hoops in a driveway, yelling, laughing. The smoky odor of grilling pork chops filled the autumn air.
Familiar sounds, familiar smells. Almost forgotten. A feeling of melancholy washed over him. This was a piece of his life he had missed out on, and now it had passed him by. He had given his life to the game of pool and it was a cold bitch of a mistress.
He looked around, trying not to be too obvious in case some of the neighbors were watching. Leon's old red Caddy was gone and all that was left was a bottomless oil stain on the concrete.
No amount of pounding on Leon's door brought an answer, so John turned and went back to his Jeep. He drove around until he found a phone. Still no Leon at the pool hall.
This time Marvin had sounded a little pissed and more than a little worried.
That made two of them.
Indecision gnawed at John as he idly let his fingers play over the cue stick resting on the Jeep seat beside him. He knew the man who had owned it would kill for it. A shudder passed through him. After what he had seen back in his motel room when he'd held the yellowish stick in his hands, he had no illusions about the man who owned it.
John parked on a nearby side street and waited for darkness to settle. There were too many nosy neighbors around for him to go breaking into Leon's place in broad daylight. Already he had attracted more attention than was smart by pounding on the door like a crazy man.
Night came fast this time of the year.
John had reached two conclusions while waiting.
First, Leon was still inside the house.
Second, and more important, if Leon was, he was dead.
The smart thing, John thought, would be to stay out of this, a quick anonymous call to the police, but hell, he'd never done anything smart in his life. Why should he start now? He was going to have a look around inside the house.
If his old friend was dead, John figured he was the man responsible for his death.
For this trip, he pulled tape off one of the Jeep seats, reached inside, and pulled out an old Army .45. A little present left to him by his old man. It was the only thing his old man had left him. The glow from the dash showed it contained three shells.
The sliding glass door at the back of Leon's house popped off its tracks easy as could be. That made John even more nervous and he was already scared to death. It was too damn easy. There should have been a bar on the door. And where was Fast Eddie? That mutt would bark at his own shadow.
John felt as though someone had left the door open.
A car cruised past, causing him to crouch down on the patio. His knee popped. In the silence it sounded like a shot, and when the car went away he climbed to his feet, feeling old and faintly foolish. His shirt had gone sweaty and now it stuck to his back like a second skin.
John went through the door, hoping he was wrong about all this; hoping the only kind of dead Leon was was dead drunk.
Several years had passed since he'd last visited here and in the dark he
couldn't tell how much the place had changed. He doubted that it had changed much. Leon liked things to stay the way they were.
He paused, just standing and listening to the house. An occupied house made different sounds than an empty house. In an empty house all you heard was the whisper of air, the faint hum of appliances running.
This was an empty house. Or, he amended quickly, a house with nobody alive in it. He pulled out his flashlight and swept it around.
Still only empty-house sounds.
The light was enough for him to see he was in the family room. "Jesus, Leon," he whispered, "where the hell are you?"
An old-style console TV sat in the corner. A small portable TV sat on top and in the darkness the larger TV appeared to have sprouted a head. A tray containing the scattered remnants of a Mexican dinner sat beside a well-worn recliner. The half-eaten burrito was as dry as a dog turd in the July sun, which meant it had been there awhile.
Everything had that slightly untidy look, like the place belonged to a man who wasn't used to fending for himself. Leon's wife, Darlene, had walked out a few years back. Now Leon ate takeout, drank himself unconscious every night, and did his best to raise a teenaged daughter all by himself.
To John's right was the kitchen. There were some dishes stacked in the sink, a faucet that dripped. He turned the faucet off. Leon had been deeply hurt at his wife's leaving though he never talked about it much. Once, drunk on tequila, Leon said he would have given her whatever it was she wanted, but he had never been able to figure out what that was.
"Welcome to the club," John had said that night, and they had toasted in that solemn way that only the very intoxicated can.
Another right, a few yards down a hallway, and John was standing in Leon's bedroom. It smelled slightly of Aqua Velva and beer, and loneliness. The bed was unmade, Leon's clothes were spread out on the floor, his size thirteen shoes were lying on their sides. For an instant, John had the crazy idea that Leon was in them and had somehow crawled under the bed. But they were just empty shoes.
Feeling like an intruder, John backed out and peeked in the other bedroom. Posters lined the walls. Shoes, albums, and clothes were a multicolored covering on the floor that obscured any trace of the carpet. Dorinda's room. Leon was trying his best to keep her off the streets and in school. Last night Leon had been talking about Dorinda, said she blamed him for her mother's leaving, said she was going to leave, too. Just as soon as she was old enough.
