by Adam Bender
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed two men looking his way. Dougie, one of Martin’s former deputies and an old friend, was pointing in his direction. The other man, who Ben didn’t recognize, pointed to confirm. With a collared shirt that looked recently starched, the man looked out of place next to Dougie, who sported a mullet, torn jeans, and a NASCAR wifebeater.
Ben Martin crossed his arms as the stranger jogged over to him. What had his deputy gotten him into now?
“Sheriff Martin?”
Ben rocked slightly. “That’s me.”
The newcomer’s eyes lit up with pleasure and he extended his hand to shake. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir. The name’s Joe Lin.”
Martin considered him skeptically. “You from around here?”
“Born and raised before it was even called Liberty.”
Laughing, Martin released his arms from his chest. “That’s what I like to hear. And what do you do?”
“I’m a firefighter — used to be paid, but we’re all volunteers now, what with the cuts and all that. You know how it is.”
“I certainly do. Well then, what can I do for you, Joe?”
Lin pointed skyward. “I read what you said about standing up to lawlessness.”
“Huh.” So Rosie had written her damned vigilante justice story and someone had actually read it. At least it sounded like she’d quoted him correctly. “What about it?”
“Well, you see …” Lin’s voice cracked as he spoke. Hoarsely, he whispered, “Last summer, I lost … I lost —”
“You lost someone.” Whenever anyone in Liberty began a sentence that way, they were talking about what happened at Walmart. Martin was tired of talking about what happened that day.
Lin’s voice sped up. “I know you did everything you could, sheriff. I’m not here to bring all that up again. Like I said, I read your quote and I just … I just couldn’t get it out of my head! I thought and thought about it, and then I had an idea. I came to see you today so I could tell you directly.”
Martin invited him for a drink at the Coyote Tavern. It seemed like the right thing to do, and anyway, he was thirsty after all that salty barbecue.
*
Gently, Jack Veras dropped a hand over his son’s arm and felt that Pablo was still warm. The wires and tubes connecting the seven-year-old to the life support system rustled with the slow rise and fall of the boy’s chest. He looked as if he was sleeping, but the truth was Jack hadn’t seen Pablo’s beautiful brown eyes for more than a year.
Jack took a seat in the worn red chair that had become his second home. He ran a hand over his own long hair, checking that the rubber band was properly fastened around his ponytail. His boy’s hair was also getting longer, but with a foreign shock of white.
“Hey, Pablito,” he said. “Know what today is? The Fourth of July! Independence Day! You always loved the fireworks, remember? All those bright colors in the night sky. You’ll never believe where half the town is celebrating, though. A gun show! Loco, right? It’s like they’ve all forgotten.”
Jack pulled off his backpack and unzipped the main pocket. After fishing around for a few seconds, he retrieved a colorful magazine depicting a superhero in neon-green sunglasses and a black cape. “I read it already,” he confessed. “I mean, after that cliffhanger last issue with Eirnen Enemy, can you blame me? I won’t say what happens, but I really think you’ll dig it.”
He added it to the pile of unread comics on Pablo’s bedside table. It was the latest issue of Spy-Boy, a teenage superhero who fought crime with a mix of stealth and gadgetry. He was Pablo’s favorite. Jack remembered loving the book, too, when he was growing up, but he’d stopped reading when he left for law school. There was just no time, and anyway it didn’t seem like the kind of thing a lawyer should be reading. Years later, when Pablo became fascinated by superheroes, Jack found himself picking up the bent issues from the floor of his son’s bedroom and flipping through the pages. The stories reminded him why he’d gotten into law in the first place — to fight for justice and protect the people who couldn’t protect themselves. These had not been the kind of cases he found upon opening a law practice in Liberty. Turned out, victims of serious crimes usually got their justice through armed confrontation or by signing a contract with a mercenary. That left Jack with the small remainder of disputes between people who didn’t want to settle their differences with guns. Divorces, mainly. Well, depending on the couple.
“Oh man, I almost forgot to tell you!” With breathless energy, he told his son about the standoff in the church. “A selfless vigilante with a sense of justice! Pablito, he was a real-life superhero!”
The boy didn’t respond.
“That’s okay, I’ll tell you about him again someday.” Sighing deeply, he added, “I still haven’t heard from your mom.”
He hadn’t seen Elaine since she packed up and left three weeks after Pablo entered the hospital. He’d hired someone to find her and was told she’d gone east and become involved with some group called the Rising Atlantic, but he’d never found out who they were. The investigator hadn’t failed, exactly. He just never came back.
In a way, Jack didn’t really want to know where she’d gone, anymore. Elaine had abandoned him … abandoned them. But she was still Pablo’s mother. It would be nice for her be around when their boy finally woke up.
If he ever woke up.
Jack took his glasses off and placed them on top of the stack of comics. With a thick inhalation of breath, he began to cry.
*
“I can’t believe someone actually read that garbage,” Dougie blurted as Martin brought three glasses of Bud to the table.
The sheriff flashed a reprimanding look that forced the former deputy’s wiry arms into the air. With all his tattoos, Dougie almost looked like a Red Striper, but the sheriff knew he’d never join with that band of assholes. Dougie used to be his best deputy on the force, back when he still had a budget. Unemployed now, he still liked to tag along with Martin, particularly when there was beer involved.
The deputy backtracked quickly. “I don’t mean what you said was garbage, Ben. I just meant that New West blog … you know, in general like.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Martin told Lin with a slurp of the yellow beer. “Still, I should probably set the record straight. Everything I told that reporter may be correct but — and I hate to say this — the situation just might be hopeless. I don’t have the government’s support to take on folks like the Wanderer. Those asshats in the legislature seem to think an individual’s right to seek justice is more important than enforcing the law.”
“That may be so,” said Lin, “but see, that’s what I came to talk to you about. I reckon there’s truckloads of men who don’t like it, either. I know I don’t! Well, I say we get the whole lot together and form a militia, just like our founders said to do in the Second Amendment! You know what I’m saying? Let’s round up some bad guys!”
“A militia?” repeated Ben Martin. He was skeptical.
Lin nodded. “We’ll call it Martin’s Militia. You’d lead, of course, being the sheriff and all. We’ll be your eyes on the street. As soon as one of us sees trouble, we’ll call it in and rally the troops and show those outlaws that the town of Liberty is under lawful protection!”
Some beer dribbled down Dougie’s chin as he exploded in giggles. “Martin’s Militia? Are you fucking serious? How are we going to get anyone —?”
“Shut up, Dougie!” Ben scolded. “Joe, I personally apologize for this nimrod. But while he may be rude, I have to say I do have some reservations of my own. You can’t fight lawlessness with lawlessness, otherwise, we ain’t no better than the Wanderer or the Red Stripe Gang. So if we’re going to have a militia, it’s got to be composed of good men who want to enforce the law. How the law used to be.”
Lin nodded appreciatively. “Sounds reasonable enough. What do you propose?”
“I say we limit this thing to former police officers and
maybe some of your firefighter friends, if you trust them to do the right thing. I reckon that will give us more than enough men.”
“Well, sure, I wouldn’t want it any other way. Anything else?”
“Just one thing, we still won’t have a budget. You really think we’ll get anyone to join this thing?”
Lin took a long sip of his Bud. “I do. It’s just like you say, sheriff. People are sick of lawlessness! They won’t be doing this thing for the money. They’ll be doing it to keep their families safe. This is a wonderful town we have. It’s worth protecting.”
Martin had to admit Joe Lin might be onto something. He’d had no luck with the mayor, and already a week had gone by without results from the bounty on the Wanderer.
“Martin’s Militia,” said the sheriff, savoring the words like hot peppers in a good chili. “I do like the sound of it.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Now Ain’t that Romantic?
The Happy Gunfighter was starting to grow on Charlie, but he had to say that the silver stars taped to the walls didn’t do shit to brighten the dank saloon. He didn’t like the spray of glitter on the bar counter, either. It cheapened the place, and worse, it stuck to the pint glasses.
Charlie’s ears pricked up as someone batted open the double doors of the saloon. He turned slightly on his barstool as the Wanderer moseyed over to his usual booth along one of the walls. The cowboy flipped his two guns out of their holsters and rested them on the table before settling into the cushion. He had on his standard outfit: gray Stetson, brown leather jacket, plaid button-down, blue jeans, and big black cowboy boots. It had been the same thing, same time, same place every day for the last week.
The bounty hunter smirked as a waitress with long dark hair and vibrant eyes arrived unrequested at the Wanderer’s table with a pint of dark beer. It sure hadn’t taken long for Freetown to figure out the man’s usual.
Charlie noticed he wasn’t the only man watching. A trio of rough-looking men on the opposite end of the bar were practically drooling over the waitress. By the way they dressed — red-and-white bandannas, black leather jackets, and tattoos — Charlie could tell they belonged to the Red Stripe Gang. That was reason enough to hate them. The Gang had been a constant headache back home. Vegas was no Red Stripe town certainly, but the Gang controlled most of the jobs and had kept his family poor.
He tapped the glass on his wrist to check for messages, breathing a sigh of relief when he found nothing new from El Tiburón. Well, even if there had been, it didn’t matter. Tonight he was gonna finish the job.
The bounty hunter threw back the last of the margarita and threw several bills down onto the bar. He squawked upon seeing his hands coated with silver glitter.
*
The Wanderer watched the funny man at the bar dust off his hands and walk, scowling, out of the saloon. The gunman slapped his empty pint glass on the table and licked his chops. The waitress, Lola, came by right away to pick it up.
“Another?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
He reckoned it was time to get on the train again, move on to someplace new. One more night, perhaps. He might as well stay for the fireworks.
Helen had loved fireworks.
The Wanderer breathed her name and a photo appeared on his eyepiece. Through the lens, it almost looked like she was sitting across from him in the booth, smiling that damned lovely smile.
“I dreamed about you again,” he whispered to the ghost.
The nightmare went like this: Helen is sleeping, and he has his arm around her soft form. There’s a noise downstairs. He grabs his Breck 17 and goes to look. The house still smells like lasagna when he finds the intruder and shoots him dead. Then there’s another noise, behind him this time. He turns and fires …
He’d risen in a cold sweat before the story could finish. He told himself it was just a dream. But it wasn’t.
When the beer arrived, the Wanderer tipped his hat in thanks.
“Plans for tonight?” the waitress asked.
“Reckon I’ll go to the meadow to see the fireworks.”
“Sounds nice,” she said, running her finger along the edge of the table.
“Thanks for the beer.”
With a frown, Lola turned and nearly walked into a large man wearing a Harley-Davidson motorcycle jacket. He had a big, black beard and wore a red-and-white lined bandanna on his head. The Wanderer figured him for a member of the Red Stripe Gang.
“Easy, baby!” the gangster exclaimed. His voice was like gravel under the tires of a car. “Was just going to ask you if me and my buddies could get a taste of something.”
He pointed to two men standing in the opposite corner of the bar. One of the men had a shaved head and a white singlet that showed off a spray of X marks running from his throat down to each arm. The other Red Striper was more compact, with arms and legs that looked like pipes. He was cleaning some kind of pistol, probably a Breck 17.
The Wanderer imagined the three gangsters sitting back on a picnic blanket, pointing at the fireworks and holding hands. The picture made him laugh.
Noticing, the gangster growled, “What’s so funny?”
The Wanderer pointed to his electronic eyepiece. “Oh nothin’. Just watchin’ a rom-com.”
*
Charlie passed a cart of white sheets and tiny bottles of shampoo outside Room 8 of the Freetown Motor Lodge. There was a sign on the door that read DO NOT DISTURB. Charlie tapped his wrist against the knob and went inside.
In the bathroom mirror, he stared himself down and shouted, “Tonight’s the night! Tonight’s the night!”
Turning to a small closet safe, Charlie keyed a code and procured a black case. Balancing it gingerly on the unmade bed, he lifted the latches and flipped open the top. He took in the sleek black handgun with a deep breath. Carefully, he screwed a scope and a silencer onto the Separatist, and loaded a magazine of bullets into the butt. He pulled up the pistol and made like he was about to fire. As he gripped the smart gun, his wristband glowed green.
Charlie could see it clearly. He’d find the Wanderer in the meadow where they were going to have the Fourth of July display. The sun would go down and the fireworks would begin. As everyone looked bright-eyed into the sky, Charlie would move through the crowd toward his target. The Wanderer would never see Charlie coming. Another firecracker would explode and the Wanderer would be dead.
That was all he had to do. Shoot the Wanderer, get the money, and move on to the next job.
Charlie dropped the gun on the white linen. As he did, the light on his wrist turned red and blinked off. He slipped on a burgundy track jacket, humming “America the Beautiful” as he admired himself in the mirror. Then he took the smart gun from the bed and slipped it into a custom-designed holster hidden inside his jacket.
Charlie sang, “And crown thy good with brotherhood, from sea to shining sea!”
When he opened the door to go outside, there was a maid standing in his way. “Done in there?” she asked. There was an edge to her voice that Charlie didn’t appreciate.
Slapping the DO NOT DISTURB sign off the door, he replied, “Do what you gotta do.”
When he got to State Street, he came upon a large throng of people carrying baskets, tote bags, and ice boxes. A sparkler whizzed by his face, and Charlie nearly fell backward.
“Sorry, mister!” the teenage perpetrator shouted back.
“Watch it!” He noticed his right hand shaking and stopped it with his left. Touching the gun inside his jacket for comfort, he joined the townspeople marching down the street.
The meadow was a big field on the north end of town, spotted here and there with saplings and sprays of colorful flowers. A large white gazebo sprang up from the ground at the far edge, where green grass ran up against the red desert. Inside the bandstand, children in a brass ensemble straightened music stands and blew spit out of their instruments. A group of fireflies joined them for the opening act.
Charlie leaned aga
inst a tree and scanned the area for the Wanderer. He was certain he would be here. For nearly a week, the rogue had been asking the locals about their strategies for seeing the fireworks. For whatever reason, the guy seemed to have a real hard-on for the Fourth of July. Personally, Charlie didn’t get what the big deal was. What was there to celebrate?
When he finally spotted the Wanderer, he nearly burst out laughing. The gunman was on his knees, talking to a teary-eyed little girl. She appeared to be about ten, give or take a couple of years, and by herself. The Wanderer had a hand on her shoulder. She pointed away from the meadow to one of the dusty hills in the distance. Charlie pulled up his handgun and looked through the scope. In the sand were tire tracks from three motorbikes. Lowering the lens, he saw the Wanderer jogging back toward State Street.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” the bounty hunter cried. For an explanation, he consulted his wristband, pulling up the social feed and localizing it for the meadow. In seconds, he had an answer. Several people in the area reported seeing a trio of strangers take a man from his daughter and force him onto the back of a motorcycle. Apparently, no one had tried to stop them.
There was a photo. It was blurry and not centered properly, but Charlie recognized the men immediately as the Red Stripers from the saloon.
Charlie let that last piece of information bounce around in his head. So the Wanderer was planning to take on the Red Stripe Gang, all on his lonesome. Only three of them, but still …
A laugh trickled ruefully from the bounty hunter’s lips as the Wanderer hopped onto a parked motorbike and roared off in the direction the gangsters had gone. “That crazy son of a bitch!”
*
The Wanderer leaned forward into the handlebars of the stolen motorbike as it climbed the dusty red hill. The Red Striper who had taken the little girl’s daddy couldn’t have gone far, but he prayed he would make it in time.
