“Well,” said Alex, sipping on his Coca-Cola, “he's about as pleasant as gettin' a tick on your taint.”
Rachael laughed. “Oh, you have no idea. He doesn't like me very much. He's the religious type, and he thinks I'm a raging harlot.” She smirked and added, “I mean, he's not wrong. But anyway, at least that's over with for another few days.”
A teenager with an unkempt mop of black hair poked his head out from the kitchen. “Is Mr. Sinder gone?”
Rachael answered, “Yeah, Josh, you're safe.”
The kid made a face. “Good. I hate that guy.”
To Alex, Rachael said, “Dan's also the high school chemistry teacher. Or at least he was until they shut down the school. He traumatized poor Josh back there.”
“Oh, come on, you two,” said Rudy. “He's not that bad.”
“No way,” said Josh. “He's pure evil. Can we just kick him out? Please?”
“I second that,” said Rachael.
Rudy sighed. “You guys know I can't afford to go kicking out paying customers.”
Rachael crossed her arms. “I hope he chokes on his adequate salad.”
***
Alex ordered a burger, and Rudy went back to the kitchen. Rachael sat on the stool next to Alex and leaned her elbow on the counter. From the back of the restaurant came the sizzle of meat on a hot grill. The smell of cooking hamburger wafted out into the lobby.
Alex sipped on his drink, then asked the waitress, “So, how long you lived here?”
“About three years.” She sighed, looking out the window. “Which is about three years too many. God, I hate this town.”
Alex said, “Good Lord, I met three people since I showed up here, and every one of 'em hates this place. How come y'all stay? Ain't like there's armed guards or nothing.”
Rachael laughed. “I ask myself that every day. I promised I'd get out of here as soon as I had enough money for a bus ticket. And three years later, here I am. Life's funny, isn't it?” Alex was about to reply when Rachael hit him in the shoulder and pointed out the window. “Ooh, here comes some small town drama. Look out there.”
Alex swiveled in his seat to look where she was pointing. A green, soft-top jeep pulled into one of the diagonal parking spaces in front of the pharmacy across the street.
“Enter the Jock, stage right,” said Rachael. “Chet Morgan. Letterman. Captain of the football team. Prom King. All-American. God, guns, and pickup trucks. Just graduated. Barely.” She glanced back at Alex for a moment, saw he was paying attention, and smiled.
Chet got out of his Jeep and stood uncertainly at the base of the steps. He wore his green letterman's jacket, despite the heat, and a camouflage baseball cap. A moment later, the door of the pharmacy opened. A teenage girl stepped out. She had blue eyes and straight black hair, a perfectly oval face, a delicate nose, and full, red lips. She wore an apron with a name-tag over a white polo shirt and a pair of blue jeans. She didn't smile.
Rachael went on. “Enter Little Miss Perfect, stage left. Emily Carson. Head cheerleader. Valedictorian. Prom Queen. Four-point-one grade point average. Wants to be a doctor. Got accepted to every fucking college ever.”
Alex sipped his Coke and watched as the two teenagers warily approached each other.
Watching through the glass, Rachael narrated. “Oh, Chet, what are you doing here?” she said in a falsetto.
“Guh, I just had to see you, Emily,” Rachael responded to herself in a moronic drawl. “I had to make a last-ditch effort to win your love, just like I made that game-winning pass that was the highlight of my life.”
“But Chet, I'm through with you.”
“But Emily, puh-leeze take me back! I know you want to go off to Harvard and be a doctor, but I wish you'd just stay here with me in my single-wide trailer while I live a life of crushing mediocrity and blame you for my failures, and my bitterness and my alcoholic rage builds up until I escalate to physical abuse.”
“No, Chet. I'm sorry. Every last detail of my life is destined for perfection, and I can't go messing that up by staying with you now that you've peaked. I need the best of everything, and you were the best in high school, but now I have to move back East and marry a neurosurgeon and drive a BMW and regularly donate to children's charities and have an affair with my tennis coach.”
“But Emily, I luuuuv you!”
“Oh, Chet, don't you realize that I'm just too good for you? I always was.”
Rachael's narration seemed to be hitting pretty close to the mark. Chet made a desperate plea, his hands upturned, all but dropping to his knees on the sidewalk. Emily stood quietly, her hands clasped in front of her, making one-word replies, shaking her head. Chet ran out of steam. Emily had the final say. She shook her head. Even from across the street, Alex could lip read the words I'm sorry. They parted with an awkward hug. Head hung low, Chet got back in his Jeep and pulled a U-turn to drive back down Main Street. Emily stood there for a moment with a stoic look on her face, then turned to go back inside.
“Ouch,” said Alex.
“Ah, young love.” Out of the corner of her eye, Rachael spotted Josh. She turned her head slightly and watched him. Dressed in a black T-shirt, jeans, and his dishwasher's apron, Josh remained silently focused on Emily as she returned to the pharmacy. Rachael caught Alex's gaze. She flicked her eyes from Emily to Josh and back, then looked at Alex. She raised her eyebrows and nodded. Alex nodded back in understanding and smiled slightly.
“Burger up!” yelled Rudy.
“There's one customer,” answered Rachael, turning back toward the kitchen. “You can't just pick up the damned plate and walk five feet over here?”
Rudy smirked. “Then what the hell am I paying you for?”
“You know, that's a great point.” Rachael got up, grabbed the plate, and transported it five feet to Alex. “So,” she said, as Alex tucked into his burger, “you never told me why you came here to Prosperity.”
“Kind of dumb, really,” said Alex, through a mouthful of burger. “I'm . . . I guess you could say I'm followin' in the footsteps of the King.”
She gave him a puzzled look. “I don't follow.”
“Elvis Presley. He played here at the Old Mine Theater in '54. Had a beer at Annie's Saloon. So, I aim to go and have a beer right where the King did.”
Rachael smiled warmly. “That sounds like a great idea! As a matter of fact, I was planning on heading over to Annie's after my shift anyway, if you wanted some company . . .”
Alex paused for a moment, half-eaten burger in his hand. “I wouldn't mind that a bit.”
“Perfect,” she said. “So, you're an Elvis fan? That's cool. I dig rockabilly. You like the Reverend?”
“The who?”
Rachael squinted and looked at him sideways. “The Reverend Horton Heat?” Alex stared blankly at her. “How about Southern Culture on the Skids?” No reaction. “Heavy Trash? Tito and Tarantula?”
Alex shook his head. “Never heard of 'em.”
“Holy shit.” She slapped him lightly on the forearm. “You mean to tell me you're cruising through the desert in a classic hot rod, wearing a cowboy hat, a Hawaiian shirt, aviators, and snakeskin boots, and you've never heard of the Reverend Horton Heat?”
Alex shrugged. “'Fraid not.”
“Well then, today is your lucky day. I mean, you've gotta respect the classics, but rockabilly has come a long way since Elvis.” She pulled out her phone. “Why don't we just give a listen to the Reverend Horton Heat? Let's start with 'The Devil is Chasing Me.'”
At that moment a green and white patrol car pulled into one of the diagonal spaces outside. The car door said sheriff.
“Actually, I'll have to get back to you on that.” Rachael put her phone away and picked up her order pad. “Looks like we've got another customer. Four in one day. Might be a new record.”
The sheriff climbed out of the police cruiser. He wore forest-green pants, a khaki uniform shirt, and a six-pointed badge. A radio handset was clipped to
his shoulder. He had a thick, meaty face with piercing, brown eyes and an unkempt mess of gray hair. Despite the belly hanging over his gun belt and the stains and wrinkles in his shirt, the man's bearing exuded hard competence. He looked haggard and tired, with an ashen face and bags under his eyes, but he cast a watchful eye down Main Street as he humped up the steps to the diner.
The bell rang as the sheriff pushed the door open.
Rudy poked his head out of the kitchen doorway. “Hey, Jim.”
The sheriff's name badge read harbaugh. He said, “Hey Rudy, how're—” His eyes came to rest on Alex. He stopped.
The change in Harbaugh's demeanor was as pointed as a medieval knight snapping shut the visor on his helm. The sheriff's posture straightened. The fatigue left his face, and his eyes narrowed down to unreadable slits. He rested one hand casually on his holstered pistol. “Who the fuck are you?” he growled.
“Jeeze, Jim,” said Rachael, looking back and forth between the two.
“Name's Alex. Howdy.” He waved, a ketchup-smeared French fry still in his hand.
Harbaugh kept his hand on his pistol as he crossed the diner. “Don't you fucking move. And keep your hands where I can see them.”
With a look of half amusement and half confusion, Alex raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, boss. Wish you'd tell me what all the fuss is about.”
“Stand up. Put your hands on the counter.”
Hesitantly, Alex complied.
Rudy stood in the kitchen doorway, his eyes wide with surprise. Josh poked his head around Rudy's shoulder, a dish towel still in his hand. He saw the commotion, and his mouth dropped open.
The sheriff expertly frisked Alex with one hand, the other still on his pistol. It took him seconds to find Alex's own pistol—a gleaming, chrome .45 automatic with pearl grips. He pulled the weapon out of its holster and turned it in the light. “Well, well, well. What do we have here?”
With his hands still flat on the counter, Alex turned his head. “Hey, I got a permit for that.”
“Of course you do. Get on your knees and put your hands behind your head.”
“Now, wait just a danged minute. I said I got all my paperwork. I ain't—” Alex began to turn.
Harbaugh seized Alex's wrist and twisted while he stomped on the back of his leg. Alex shouted in pain and fell to his knees. “You want to be a tough guy, I'll get the Taser out.”
Alex didn't respond. The warm steel of handcuffs tightened around his wrists.
Rachael stood a few feet away with her eyes wide, one hand over her mouth.
The sheriff stood Alex up and sat him down again on one of the stools. He continued his search. In seconds he'd found a spare magazine for the pistol, a tiny derringer in Alex's boot, a folding knife, and a handcuff key cleverly hidden inside Alex's belt buckle. Harbaugh held up the handcuff key. He smiled thinly. “Oh yeah, every law-abiding citizen carries one of these.”
Alex looked resigned. “You got the wrong idea about me, fella.”
“Oh, I'm sure.” Harbaugh picked up Alex's pistol from the lunch counter. He ejected the magazine and set it on the counter, then racked the pistol's slide. The chambered bullet spun into the air, and the sheriff caught it one-handed. He set the pistol down with the slide locked back. Examining the bullet, he said, “Federal Hydra Shok. These are man-killers.”
Alex sighed. “Well, of course they are. I ain't carryin' a pistol to keep the squirrels away, am I?”
Harbaugh slipped the bullet into his shirt pocket. “Stranger, I don't like your attitude. You're still thinking I'm some hick sheriff, and you're going to run rings around me and go on home again to the big city. I was working Las Vegas homicide when you were still in diapers. I put away my share of professional killers, and I know one when I see one—the flashy clothes, the snakeskin boots, the cheap, gaudy pistol.”
“Cheap?” said Alex. “Hey, say what you want about me, but you leave Samuel Colt out of it.”
Harbaugh ignored him. He thumbed through Alex's wallet as he continued. “Not to mention the big wad of cash. All the mob killers in Vegas swaggered and back-talked just like you. You're a stone killer. I can smell it on you. You think you're too smart to go down, but you fucked up the day you decided to come to my town.”
Alex didn't respond.
“Who do you work for?” said the sheriff. “Luchese? Was it gambling debts? I don't know what the hell Buddy could have gotten mixed up in to put someone like you on his trail, but you'd better believe I'm going to make you pay for what you did.”
“Buddy?” said Rudy. “Wait, what happened to Buddy?”
Harbaugh sighed. He threw Alex's wallet on the counter and turned to Rudy. He said, “We've been trying to keep it quiet, but it's going to come out sooner or later. Somebody cut Buddy's throat last night. We found him in the McCormick Hotel early this morning.”
Rachael paled. She hugged herself. “Oh my God.”
“Holy shit,” Josh muttered.
“Jesus, who'd want to kill Buddy?” said Rudy. He sat down hard on his stool and rubbed his face. “Jesus. He wouldn't hurt a fly.”
“Why don't you ask this asshole?” said Harbaugh, pointing at Alex with his thumb. “I've been up since three-thirty this morning processing the crime scene, and all I wanted was to come in here and have a burger and a cup of coffee. But now I can't because this son of a bitch decided to hang around and gloat.” He grabbed Alex by the arm. “You are under arrest on suspicion of murder. You have the right to remain silent.”
Chapter Three
“Look here,” Alex protested. “I just got into town fifteen minutes ago. I was in Vegas this time yesterday. Y'all got the wrong guy. I'm real sorry for your loss and all, but I never even met this fella.”
Harbaugh ignored Alex. He leaned his head to the side and spoke cop-talk into the handset on his shoulder. The radio beeped and squawked, and somebody on the other end answered in more cop-talk.
“Okay.” Alex sighed. “I can see that you're about as stubborn as a hungover mule. I ain't gonna change your mind. Do me one favor, at least. Dig a twenty out of my wallet there and pay the man for my burger. Can you do that?”
After a moment's pause, Harbaugh grudgingly picked up Alex's wallet. He pulled out a twenty and handed it to Rudy.
“Thanks, stranger. I appreciate it,” said Rudy.
“The change is the lady's tip.”
“Are you sure about this guy, Jim?” said Rachael. “He seems nice enough.”
“And you're such a great judge of men,” the sheriff replied, ignoring the waitress's hurt expression. He pulled Alex along by the forearm. “Okay asshole, we're going to the lockup. Then we're going to go on the computer and find out all about you and the fascinating murders you've committed.”
“You're makin' a mistake,” said Alex.
Harbaugh stopped and turned to face Alex. “Let me ask you this. We haven't had a murder here in Prosperity since 1923. I think it's a hell of a coincidence, you just happening to be in town today. Don't you?”
Alex raised his eyebrows and nodded in acknowledgment. “I'd probably be thinkin' the same thing, in your place.”
The sheriff led Alex toward the front door. “Nobody touch that pistol. I'll be back for it once I've got our friend here in the car.”
There was a noise then, a deep, subsonic whump that rattled the windows and the floorboards. The stacks of dishes buzzed, and the silverware hummed like tuning forks. Somewhere outside, a dog howled.
The diner's lights flickered and went dark. The jukebox died. The gentle rattle of the air conditioner tapered away.
All that remained was silence. Deep, complete silence—the absence of cooling fans, electronic hums, ambient radio, the whisper of moving air, the purr of vibrating phones. Suddenly, the drip of the leaky sink was deafening, the squeal of the ceiling fan's aged bearings oppressive as they coasted to a stop. For a moment, everyone just stopped and listened.
“Ah, what the hell?” moaned Rudy. “Thi
s is all I need, to throw out a refrigerator full of food. Josh, would you go check the breakers, please? And Rach, would you mind asking around to see if anybody else's power is out, or if it's just us?”
“Sure thing, Rudy.” Rachael went out the door and looked down the street.
Outside, people wandered out of their shops, blinking in the sunshine. Emily Carson and Tom Miller walked out of the pharmacy. Tom was a balding man with an angry face and a large mustache. He looked down the street, still in his white pharmacist's coat. Lila Montez walked out of her salon, wearing her black apron over a tie-dyed T-shirt. She looked at Tom and shrugged. Annie Hall poked her head out from her namesake bar with a scowl on her face. She looked up and down the street, pulled her head back in again, and slammed the door.
“Looks like it's everybody,” Rachael said. She sighed. “That's just fucking great. If there's one thing worse than Prosperity, it's Prosperity with no air conditioning.”
Harbaugh rubbed his eyes and laughed softly. “For fuck's sake. It's a perfect day.” He sighed. “Okay, I'm going to drop this clown off in the lockup, then we'll see what we can find out about the electricity.” The little bell dinged as he dragged Alex out the door.
A minute later, the bell rang again. The sheriff dragged Alex back in, wearing a look of pure disgust. “Aaand, my car died,” he said. He thumbed the switch on his radio. Nothing happened. He hit it a few more times. “And my radio. Christ almighty. I quit. Rudy, do you want to be the sheriff today?”
Rudy laughed softly. “Not on your life, Jim.”
“Then you're a smarter man than I. Can I borrow your phone for a second?”
“Sure thing.”
Harbaugh undid one of Alex's cuffs and relocked it around the back of one of the diner stools. Then he walked around behind the counter and picked up the landline phone's handset. He held the phone to his ear and jiggled the button a few times. “What the fuck? The phone's out, too. Not even a dial tone. It's stone dead.”
Rachael held her cell phone in her hand. “Mine, too.” She pushed buttons with no result. The screen stayed black. She pried off the backplate and removed the battery, then put it back in. The phone's screen stayed dark.
Alex Rains, Vampire Hunter (Book 2): Hell Night Page 4
