"Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't hear you come in. Not many customers these days. How can I help you?"
"We need a room for the night and somewhere to stable and feed our horses," Amy said.
"Not a problem. We can take care of both. I take gold, silver, food, and just about anything else as payment. What have you got?"
Amy pulled a couple of silver coins out of her pouch and placed them on the counter, adding coins until the old man's face turned upward in a smile.
"OK, folks, you've got yourself a room. Here's your room key." The old man turned and yelled through the open doorway to a back room of the office. "Max, get out here! We've got customers."
A middle-aged man, clearly the old man’s son, came through the doorway, yawning.
"These two have horses that need tending to. See that you give the horses a good rub down before you feed them. They look like they've been on the road for a while and I'm sure their horses are run down."
The younger man nodded sleepily and went outside.
"Is there anywhere to get something to eat around here?" Amy asked.
"Sure is. If you take a right out of the front door, not a half a block down the street there's a bar called McFlynn's. The food is good, but mind you keep away from their liquor. That rotgut they pass off as moonshine will make you go blind."
"Thanks for the warning," Amy said.
Kenny opened the door and then followed his mother down the street towards the bar. It was easy to spot. All of the other buildings were boarded up. McFlynn's was the only building with an open door, and there were two kerosene lanterns hanging outside, ready to light up the approaching night. Kenny exchanged a glance with his mother. He was willing to bet the place had more roaches than paying customers.
Inside, the room was empty except for a man sitting at a table near the window, and a weasel-like bartender standing behind the counter, wiping the countertop. He looked up as Kenny pulled out a bar stool and sat down. "Can I help you folks?"
"What do you have to eat?" Amy asked.
"We've got potatoes cooked any way you like as long as it's fried, and fish. Can I interest you in some of our locally produced moonshine? Clean as a whistle! Made using water from a mountain stream not far from here," the bartender said in his weasel thin voice. He brought a jug out from beneath the counter and poured a sample of the moonshine into a cup, and pushed it across the bar to Amy.
She sniffed at the cup and recoiled.
Amy picked up a spoon off the counter and poured a spoonful, then dug in her pocket for something.
"It's a shame what some people try to pass off as moonshine these days," Amy said. She lit a match and set the flame to the spoonful of liquor.
The flame burned bright red for a moment and then cleared to a blue flame.
"Lead burns red and that means you're dead," Amy said flatly.
"I don't understand," the bartender said, his face scrunched up in confusion.
"There's lead in this moonshine. This moonshine was made in a still that has lead in it, most likely an old car radiator. You keep selling this stuff to your customers and you won't have any customers left to sell to."
The bartender's mouth hung wide open for a moment, then he jabbed the cork back into the bottle. "So you know a little bit about moonshine, eh? I'll tell you what. I happen to have some high-quality moonshine. Just came into it. Top of the shelf stuff. I was going to keep it all to myself, but for the right price, I'll make an exception."
The bartender disappeared into a back room and then came back with a new bottle of moonshine.
Kenny looked at his mother in surprise, but her face remained an unreadable mask.
It was Wheeler moonshine. He knew it as soon as the man came through the door with it. Every bottle was painted with the same fancy text and a mural, screen printed onto the bottles painstakingly. A hangtag dangled from the jug's handle, a six-digit hand printed number written on it. The tags were used by Wheeler's distillery to track the bottles as they left. The tag number was recorded in town and indicated who the bottle was released to, and hence who was responsible for the sale. Everybody in Wheeler participated in the distillation process, whether it was providing grain, labor, or washing and painting the bottles. Every citizen also sold the end product, and they were paid a commission on the number of bottles sold, as evidenced by the number of tags they brought back with their profits.
The hangtag was still on the bottle, meaning the bottle of moonshine wasn't sold. It was stolen.
Kenny pushed himself out of his chair and was about to confront the man, but his mother kicked him hard in the shin. He sat back down quickly. Whatever she was doing, he would have to just go along with it.
The bartender poured out a shot of the liquor into a fresh glass and scooted it over the counter.
Amy smelled the small glass and downed the shot, then gave a wincing nod of approval. "That is good! Do you have any more bottles of that? I'll pay top dollar for shine that good."
"Oh, I'm not sure I'd be willing to sell all of it. Like I said, it really is special moonshine and I was hoping to save it for myself."
Amy reached into her pocket and produced a sack of coins, hefting it for emphasis. The coins clinked together loudly in the still of the small bar. She untied the bag and spilled a few gold coins into her open palm, smiling at the barkeep. "I think you'll find I'm quite generous."
With a nervous glance around the bar, the barkeep lifted the hinged countertop and tilted his head to the side. "Follow me. I've got several more gallons in the back."
Kenny followed his mother, who was on the bartender’s heels as they went into the back of the bar. Shelves full of various liquors and other empty bottles lined the walls. Three crates full of Wheeler corn whiskey and moonshine sat on the floor in plain view. As soon as the door closed behind him, Kenny shoved the man up against the wall, eliciting a shrill squeal from the man.
"Take whatever you want! Please don't kill me!" the bartender cried out.
"We're not here to rob you," Kenny said. "Where did you get this whiskey? Tell me or--"
Amy winked at Kenny and then put her hand on his arm, pulling him away from the bartender. "Whoa, slow down there, Son. This gentleman doesn't know who we are or why we're here. Let's explain the facts to him first. He looks like a reasonable person to me," she said. She went on to explain a different version of the caravan robbery story, selectively retelling it as a simple whiskey heist and leaving out the horrific murders.
"Now that we're able to talk in private, why don't you tell me where you got the moonshine from? I know you didn't buy it, and I'll tell you why. This whiskey is made in my hometown. I've personally stirred the mash, run the distiller, and stuffed a cork in hundreds of these bottles.
"See that hangtag on the bottle? If you'd bought this from a legitimate seller they would have taken the tag with them. They get paid a commission for each tag they turn in. None of these hangtags have been taken. Those crates you have there, those are worth two months of wages. Now answer me truthfully. Did you steal it yourself or did you buy it from someone else?" Amy asked.
"What do you mean? I don't have any idea what you are talking about! I had no idea it was stolen. How could I? I bought it from the same men I buy my other moonshine from. They made it right here in town--"
"Liar!" Amy yelled. "No you didn't. You knew something was different about this moonshine. You must have suspected it was stolen or else you would have it out front displayed in the bar. Instead, you kept it back here, hidden from sight. Now tell me where you got it," Amy said. "I'm losing my patience with you."
"I didn't do anything wrong! I don't know where it came from!" The bartender said, whimpering.
Amy sighed. "Kenny, I don't think he can hear very well. Let's see if I can help him hear a little better." She seized the little bartender by both ears and pulled him up by them until he screamed with pain.
"OK! All right! I'll tell you." The little bartender seemed to deflate.
"I bought it from a man who comes in here sometimes."
"What does he look like? How long ago did he sell it to you?" Kenny asked.
"He... Look, you can't tell him I told you any of this, all right? He'll kill me if he knows I ratted him out."
"We won't say a word. Now tell me everything you know about him."
"His name's John. He's tall, I don't know, about thirty years old. He has a tattoo on his right forearm. A snake wrapped around a dagger. He doesn't live around here, I know that much. I don't know where he works, but I've seen him come in here with railroad men before. He was right out... no, no. That's all I know," the bartender said. Sweat poured from his pasty forehead and his hands shook.
"What? What aren't you telling us?" Kenny demanded.
"No. I can't tell you. He'll kill me if I tell you."
Kenny slipped his skinning knife out of its sheath and, quicker than the bartender could react, pressed the point of the knife into the man's fat cheek, stopping just short of drawing blood. "The man that sold you the whiskey did more than just steal it. He ambushed a group of people not far from here. Somebody kidnapped my fiancée. He and his men killed her mother and father and other people from our town. I don't care about the stolen whiskey. You're a chicken shit, but you're not a coldblooded murderer. I just want the man that sold it to you. I need to find him quickly, and I'm getting impatient," Kenny said.
The bartender's lower lip trembled. "OK. OK! He's out front. Sitting at the table by the window. Please don't let him that I was the one that ratted him out!"
Amy let go of the bartender and rushed towards the door leading to the bar.
Kenny was hot on her heels. He tucked his knife back into its sheath and pulled his pistol out of its holster.
When they came through the door, the man's table was empty.
Kenny burst through the front door, swiveling his head about trying to locate the man. Off to his right, a horse beat a hasty retreat down the town's main street, its shoes clopping loudly on the pavement.
His mother pulled her pistol and fired several shots after the man.
Kenny calmly grabbed his rifle from the scabbard on his horse and brought it to his shoulder. He took aim through the iron sights at the fleeing figure on the horse and calmed his breathing down into a steady flow of air. In and out, he became one with the rifle. The target became the only thing in his awareness, and his mind ran calculations, compensating for the distance. A hundred yards. A hundred and ten yards. A hundred and twenty yards. He squeezed the trigger.
The rifle reported. A hundred and twenty yards away the horse stumbled and crashed to the ground, sending its rider flying through the air. The horse and man screamed in pain as they hit the ground.
Running up to the man, Kenny saw that his leg was bent the wrong way, twisted underneath his body. The horse whinnied in pain, bleeding from a gut wound. His mother put her pistol to the horse's head and ended the suffering animal's misery.
"Who are you?" Kenny demanded, kicking the man's arm away as he reached for the pistol at his belt. Kenny stripped the gun from its holster.
"Go to hell. What do you people want?" the man asked defiantly.
Kenny kneeled down and set his palm on the man's broken leg, then put pressure on the wound.
The man screamed in agony, flailing his arms against the ground. "Stop! Stop!"
"Who are you?" Kenny asked.
"Bill Cheswold," he said in a raspy voice.
"You must already know who we are and why we're here, otherwise you wouldn't have left the bar in such a hurry. So you know I'm in no mood to mess around. You killed some of our friends and ransacked our caravan. You took a girl and her brother. Where is she? What did you do with her?" Kenny shouted.
"I... I don't know anything about--"
Kenny bore down his entire weight on the man's broken leg.
The man screamed in pain, his eyes wide as saucers. "All right! Stop! Please!" he screamed. He turned his head to Amy, pleading. "Please make him stop."
"You'd better tell him what he wants to know. You took away his fiancée and killed her family. If you think you'll find pity or mercy from me, you're sorely mistaken. Tell my son the truth or he'll make you talk, one way or the other," Amy said.
The man seemed to finally resign himself to his situation. "I... I was part of a group of guys. We used to stop people from out of town and take their stuff. A few months ago the railroad company started paying us to harass traders that weren't using the railroad to ship their merchandise. We stopped your people and took the liquor, then they left. That's all I know," he said.
Amy gave him a withering look. "You'd better come out with all of it or I'm going to walk away. I can't stand cruelty, so I won't want to see what my son is going to do to you."
A few seconds of silence passed, and then Amy got to her feet. "Do what you have to, Kenny. Just wait until I'm back in the bar so I don't have to hear it."
"Wait! Wait! Please don't let him!" the man pleaded.
"Where is she? What did you do with her? Her brother ended up in a prison, so where is she?" Kenny asked.
"I took her up to Charleston and sold her. There's a warehouse by the train station that I take them to. An old soda manufacturing warehouse," the man stammered. "There's a guy there pays good money for women. I don't know his name, but he's got a big scar on his face. I don't know what he does with them. I swear. I didn't--"
"All right. That's all we need to know. Did you kill anybody? Any part of our caravan?" Amy asked.
"No. No! I swear I didn't do--"
Kenny pressed down hard on the man's leg, infuriated by his lies.
"Ah! OK! Stop, please! I shot two of the bikers. And some other guy. That was all, I swear. I didn't kill any women or anybody else."
"Let's go, Kenny. How far is Charleston from here? There's enough moonlight to ride by if we stick to the highway," Amy said.
"Please just let me go. I swear I'll stop--"
"We can’t get too far. Mom... we're not just going to leave this guy here, are we? He killed our friends. He's kidnapped people. He--"
"If you guys just let me go I swear I'll never--"
His mother pointed her pistol at the man's head and calmly pulled the trigger, ending the man's pleas for mercy. "Let's go, Kenny. There's no time to waste."
Chapter 9
Warden Butch Metz sat behind a wide mahogany desk with a surface so shiny and polished that a mirror image of the man shone in its reflection. His crisp uniform looked like it had been starched and ironed only an hour before, his hands were manicured, and not a hair on his head was out of place. Metz was a man who cared about appearances, and when Chief Howell walked through the door trailing dust and the smell of horse from the ride, Metz stuck his nose in the air, looking down at Howell in disdain as he carried in the crate of corn whiskey.
"Bud Howell. What brings you here?" Metz asked with little enthusiasm.
"Warden Metz, it's good to see you again," Chief Howell said cheerily. "The last time we met you were a deputy in Greenbriar County, gunning for the Sheriff's job. I was sorry to hear you didn't get it, but when I heard you'd been promoted to warden, I thought to myself, if anyone deserves it, it's Butch Metz," Chief Howell said, smiling.
He'd dealt with people like Metz countless times in his career. Whatever trade it was they professed to, politics was their real game. And politicians cared about only one thing: themselves.
Metz softened a bit and gestured towards a chair. "Please, sit down. What can I do for you?"
Chief Howell set the crate down on the floor and took out one of the bottles of Wheeler moonshine, then passed it to the Warden. "I came to congratulate you on your promotion, and I brought you a little something. A goodwill gesture if you will. I have a favor to ask, and, well, I wouldn't come asking for a favor without greasing the wheels a little first."
Metz turned the bottle of corn whiskey in the sunlight, examining the contents. "Would you look at that? Is that wha
t I think it is?"
"Top shelf corn whiskey, the best you can get for a thousand miles.” Howell removed another bottle from the crate, this one filled with a clear liquid. “And this here, this is the purest white lightning around. All natural, made with homegrown grain. This wasn't made by any old backwoods hillbilly with a radiator still. We've got a large distillery operation. Everybody in town pitches in to help. All of the grain is produced locally, too. I thought you'd enjoy a little sample of our work."
"Well, I'm hardly one to turn down a friendly gesture like that," the Warden said. He brought two glasses out of a desk drawer and set them down on the mahogany desktop.
"I've got a case of this for you on my horse outside. You can have one of your boys bring it up later." Chief Howell pulled the cork out of the bottle of corn whiskey and filled the two glasses.
"Very friendly indeed,” Warden Metz said. "Bottoms up."
Howell looked at the liquid in the bottom of his glass. An old hunger burned inside of him, demanding to be fed. His hand trembled slightly, and he quickly grabbed his knee so that Metz wouldn't notice. Metz looked at him expectantly, and Howell picked up the glass. If he wanted information, he couldn't turn the drink down. He'd already resolved that he would do whatever it took to bring Tweed down, but this wasn't what he had in mind. Still... Howell tilted the glass up, feeling the burn coat his throat as the liquor made it's way down.
"That a boy," Metz said, sipping at his own glass before he upended it. "Goodness, that is excellent! I can't tell you some of the terrible things people pass off as liquor these days. Here, let's have another." Metz poured two more glasses. "Tell me about this favor you need help with. How can I be of service?"
Howell wrinkled his brow and made a show of seeming hesitant to ask his question. He had to be convincing for the ruse to work. If he started out asking questions about Tweed and his connection to Metz's promotion, Metz would clam up. "I came to see if you could help me locate a young man that was sent here after a drug bust many years ago. You see, I put the young man away, and the boy never came home after prison. His father has had it out for me ever since." That much was no lie; Roy had been a bitter adversary for many years.
EMP Aftermath Series (Book 3): Retribution Page 6
