By the time I turned the water on the building, the fire was big enough to throw a goodly amount of light and heat on the area. Flames engulfed the entire front façade of Outland, and I knew immediately that using my paltry little garden hose was going to be like pissing on a forest fire. It wasn't going to do a spitwad of good, but I aimed the stream toward the crackling flames anyway.
Suddenly, movement caught the corner of my eye and my head turned toward the edge of the flattened front yard folks used as the Outland parking lot. Two men stood about fifty feet away, in the shadows, just outside the reach of the firelight. They were indistinct, two man-shaped dark blotches, but I knew immediately who it was, even though I couldn't see their faces.
"You motherfuckers!" I screamed, lowering the hose and turning in their direction. "Why? Why did you have to burn it down? Why can't you leave us alone?"
I heard a pop, and in the back of my mind, I wondered crazily if the fuckers were cracking open a beer while they watched my property go up in flames. Then I dropped the hose as my right leg gave out on me, and the ground rose up to meet me halfway. Before my brain had time to register that I'd been shot and was in pain, the two men-shaped shadows began trotting in my direction.
My first impression, that the two men were Sanford Matthews and Officer Smith, proved correct as they came closer. My second, that I'd been shot, was also right on the money, since the pain in my leg was excruciating, and Smith was pointing his service revolver at my head.
"Gonna end this once and for all," Matthews said. "Like the angels in the Old Testament, gonna burn your asses out with fire and brimstone." His eyes were wild; I could see the whites surrounding his muddy green irises. They reminded me of mold spots on a pair of old, hard-boiled eggs. "God says suffer the wicked not to live."
"Amen," Smith added, and cocked the trigger of his revolver. "Couldn't leave well enough alone, could you? Had to go make that video, and talk to that uppity detective, Loughman. That man's like a dog with a bone; won't leave well enough alone."
I heard my death knell in that sound and panicked. My leg hurt, but I guess I was in shock, because I barely felt the pain. The fear was choking though, squeezing my chest until I could barely take a breath. I started to prattle, saying everything and anything that came to mind. "Why'd you kill Ashley? He did what you wanted him to do. Gave Fargo up. He was going home to Alabama. Why'd you kill him?"
"Suffer the wicked not to live," Matthews said again. He was nodding and grinning at me, his teeth gleaming, reflecting the orange of the flames. "Doing God's work."
Crazy, I thought. He's lost his mind.
"Do you think I'm stupid?" Smith asked, ignoring Matthews as if he'd never spoken. I looked at Smith, but all I could see was the black hole of his gun's muzzle pointing at me. "Think because I'm just a desk sergeant and not some hot shot detective that I don't know my ass from my elbow? He knew our names. You do, too. Gotta tie up the loose ends, end this."
I closed my eyes, knowing he wouldn't miss from that distance. I winced, not really knowing what to expect. How much would it hurt? My leg was on fire; the blood soaking my pants was hot and wet -- how much worse would a head shot feel? Would my brain even have time to register the bullet entering my skull before I died? Then I thought about Hank and wondered how he'd get on without me.
I heard two popping sounds in quick succession, and my body tensed, as if to prepare itself for the impact.
A heartbeat passed, then another, before I realized I was still alive. My eyes flashed open, and I saw both Matthews and Smith lying flat on the ground. Neither one was moving.
I looked over my shoulder and saw Hank standing a few yards behind me, my .45 in his hands. The expression on his face was one I'd never seen him wear before. It was stony and cold and positively murderous.
Fargo ran up to us, my shotgun cradled loosely in the crook of his arm. Skeeter and Jethro were hot on his heels. The shotgun wasn't necessary -- Matthews and Smith were dead. I could tell that without bothering to check them; Smith's face was turned toward me and I could see the hole neatly placed near the center of his forehead, blood staining his skin. Matthews lay so still, he couldn't have possibly been breathing.
Hank and me are both dead shots, I remembered telling Loughman.
Well, Hank sure proved me right -- twice over.
"You okay, Beaver?" Hank's voice was as icy as his expression, dull and flat, unemotional and detached. I'd never seen that side of him, wondered if it even existed before, or if it was something new that'd evolved in him over the past few months.
"I, uh, might've been shot," I said, my fingers blinding exploring my thigh, feeling the wetness of the blood soaking my jeans. The pain seemed to grow worse with each passing moment. I couldn't move my leg, not well enough to stand up, anyway.
Hank's face seemed to crack before my very eyes, that hard expression flaking away, crumbling. He blinked, the gun falling from his hand.
As Hank threw himself at me trying to figure out where I'd been shot and how badly, screaming for Jethro to call for an ambulance, at the same time I yelled at him to relax and not to get himself all worked up, Outland burned.
Chapter Twenty-One
There's nothing worse than being confined to bed, unless you're doing it while your right leg is covered in hard plaster from your toes to your hip.
The bullet lodged itself in my thighbone, about halfway between my hip and my knee, and I had to have surgery to remove it. The bone was broken, of course, and after the swelling went down and the stitches came out, the doctors cast it. They bent my leg at the knee when they did it, which made sleeping a nightmare. I hate to sleep on my back -- makes me snore like a wood-chipper. Worse, I had to do my business in a bedpan for the first couple of weeks. Pissing in a bottle is bad enough, but I swear there's nothing more humiliating than having a nurse shove that cold metal pan under your bare ass everyday.
"Oh, suck it up, Beaver," Hank said when I complained. "It could be worse."
"Yeah, I know." He was right. I could've been dead. "Any word from Loughman? Is he going to arrest Bellows?" I asked. I reached for my glass of water on the bed tray, my lips wrangling for the straw. It swirled around the brim of the cup, as if trying to escape me.
"No, he's not."
I spat the straw out, water dripping down my chin. "What? Why the fuck not?"
"Beaver, calm down," Hank said, swiping at me with a paper towel. I knocked his hand away. "Loughman says there's nothing to tie Bellows to any of it -- not Fargo's beating, Ashley's murder, the peacock, or the fire. The fingerprints they found on Ashley's watch belonged to Matthews, and the fibers came from one of Smith's uniform shirts."
"What about the hunters Loughman said he found? The ones who might've seen who killed Ashley?"
"The hunters described two men who might've been Matthews and Smith, but Loughman said they didn't get a good enough look to make a positive identification. The cold, hard truth is that without Matthews and Smith to testify, there ain't nothing for Loughman to arrest Bellows on."
"So he's going to get off? That little bastard is behind everything that's happened to us! You know it as well as I do, Hank!"
He nodded. "Ain't nothing we can do about it, though, Beaver. As far as Loughman is concerned, it’s done."
I was almost afraid to ask my next question. "What about you?"
He looked away for a minute, staring out of the hospital window. "Don't rightly know yet. Loughman says not to worry on it, says it's obvious I only shot in self-defense, and to keep you from being killed, and we got the tapes of Matthews and Smith setting the fire from the security camera Skeeter set up, but Bellows isn't letting it rest. He's had his congregation down at the courthouse every day, picketing. Says I murdered Matthews and Smith in cold blood, and ought to be arrested."
I could only imagine the signs Bellows and his folks must be waving down there. Guns Don't Kill People, Homos Do, or some such nonsense. "What about Outland?"
"Oh, I
almost forgot to tell you! Fargo got himself a lawyer, one of them big outfits from over in Jackson City that advertise on the TV all the time. Gonna sue the local police, maybe the county and state, too, and the hospital. Lawyer says Fargo has a case, on account of Smith being a policeman. Calls it a cover-up, says somebody had to know what was going on, and turned a blind eye."
"I asked you a question, Hank," I said softly. I'd asked it before, and he'd always avoided answering me. I wasn't going to let him squirm out of telling me this time. "What about Outland?"
He sighed and reached for my hand. I could see wetness glinting in his eyes, and knew the answer before he gave it. "It's gone, Beaver. Ain't nothing left of it but a heap of ash and busted-up wood. By the time the fire department pulled up the drive, there wasn't nothing they could do but keep it from spreading."
"Oh, Lord. It's gone? Everything we've been through, everything we've been fighting for... it was all for nothing? Bellows won after all?" I felt my throat tighten, tears burning at the injustice. It was a final slap in the face, a final spit in the eye. We had nothing left. Nothing.
Hank's hand squeezed mine. "It was only a building, Beaver--"
"The hell it was! Outland stood for something, Hank! It said that we have rights, that we're people, just as worthy of respect as everyone else, and Bellows managed to shit on it. Shit on us."
"We can rebuild..."
"Bullshit. You, with your heart condition, and me with my leg? Doc already told me there was going to be hell to pay with my arthritis from now on. We're too old to start over, Hank. Besides, the insurance ain't enough to cover the costs of rebuilding, and you know it." My voice sounded as weary as I felt as I slumped back against the hospital bed mattress. "It's over."
"Maybe," he agreed, somewhat reluctantly. "You still got me, though."
I found a smile for him and reached to pull him closer. "That's the only thing keeping me going, hon." I tried to stretch up to meet his lips, a feat nearly impossible for me since they had my leg suspended in traction. He met me more than halfway, and the sweetness of his kiss went a long way toward lifting my spirits.
It also lifted other parts of me, parts I figured it was best not to think on using until I was released from the hospital. Hank noticed, too, and with a little devilish grin, rubbed my prick through the thin hospital sheet covering me.
"Oh," I groaned softly, "that's just evil, Hank."
"What? Can you blame me for being happy to see that things are still in working order?" His fingers curled around my length, squeezing me gently. "You can't expect me to ignore it when it pops up like that to say how-do."
I should've pushed his hand away, but truth be told, I was enjoying it too much. It was just what I needed right then, the one thing that could get my mind off Outland and our troubles. I relaxed, enjoying the feel of his hand on me through the thin sheet.
Hank stroked me slowly, rubbing the cotton fabric along the length of my dick. I was getting harder by the minute, well on my way to a full-out erection. "Gonna make me mess the sheets," I gasped, feeling frustrated because my hips wanted to pump up into his fist, but the cast on my leg made it impossible.
"I'll take off the sheet and tell the nurse you pissed the bed," he said, chuckling a little. His voice sounded hoarse, though, and when I looked, I saw a bulge pressing against his zipper. I reached for him, sliding my fingers over the hard lump outlined under the denim. "Now look what you did. You gave yourself a problem, too."
"Don't worry on me. I can take care of myself later." He cocked his head, listening for a moment, then pulled the bed sheet down and took hold of me properly, stroking me faster. "Let it go, Beaver."
I didn't know if he was talking about my orgasm or Outland. Hell, maybe it was both. My breath grew ragged as he fisted me, and I glanced worriedly at the privacy curtain drawn around the bed.
"Ain't nobody here. Your roommate went down for x-rays. Now, hurry up before he gets back, or the nurse comes in to check on you again."
"I'm close," I whispered, feeling the familiar stirring in my balls, the heat building up, getting ready to spill over.
Hank leaned over the side of the bed, his pink tongue flicking out, lightly swirling over the head of my cock. His lips closed over my prick just in the nick of time. I came, gritting my teeth to keep from crying out from both the pleasure, and from the pain my tensed muscles caused my leg.
I might have kept silent, but my leg was screaming, and it got louder and louder as my climax waned.
Never let on to Hank, though. He looked so pleased with himself, his finger wiping a drop of semen from the corner of his mouth, and I knew if he realized he'd made me hurt, he'd feel guilty.
I plastered a big, goofy smile on my face, and thanked him, instead. "Come over here and let me help you, now." Truthfully, the pain in my leg was like a toothache, a sharp, piercing agony that nearly brought tears to my eyes, and it took a heap of doing on my part to keep it from showing.
"No, you just lay there and heal."
"Ain't nothing wrong with my hands or my mouth," I said, reaching for his crotch. He moved away, out of reach. "Come on, Hank! Give it here," I insisted, my hands making little grabby motions toward him.
He shook his head at me, grinning like a fool. "Keep your hands to yourself. I mean it, Beaver."
A new voice called from outside the privacy curtain. "Oh, Lord, they're at it again. Can't leave you two alone for five minutes without you trying to get into each other's britches," Fargo said, chuckling as he drew the curtain back and he, Skeeter, and Jethro gathered around the bed. "You're worse than me and Skeeter."
I laughed, barely having time to wrench the sheet back up over my privates, and relaxed back against the pillow. Secretly, I was thrilled for the interruption, and casually grabbed the remote for the automatic pain medication machine they had me hooked up to, and pressed the button that would deliver a jolt of morphine into my system.
Hank didn't miss it and caught on quick enough. "Oh, Lord. I hurt you, didn't I?"
"Nah. It was just time, is all," I lied. "How'd y'all get up here? Two visitors to a room, remember? The nurse is going to shit bricks."
"We snuck up the same way as we did when Hank was in here -- through the Emergency Room," Jethro answered.
The three of them looked like they shared a secret, something beyond just sneaking past hospital security, and I cocked my head at them suspiciously. "What's going on?"
They didn't answer, but exchanged grins as Fargo set a big paper sack on the bedside table.
"What's all this?" I asked. I looked at Hank, but he seemed as clueless as I was.
"Just a little something from me, Skeeter, Jethro, and some others," he said. I noticed his hand stray to his crotch, rubbing. "Go on, open it, Beaver."
Whatever was in the bag, it had him excited, and I smiled. "Well, let's see," I said, opening the bag and reaching inside. I pulled out two pair of shorts, one a god-awful lime green and decorated with palm trees; the other was red, splattered with colorful parrots. "What in the blue hell are these for?"
"There's more. Go on, dig deeper," Fargo said. His hand moved faster over his cock, and I could see it beginning to bulge under his zipper. Skeeter's hand whipped out and smacked his fingers away.
I stuck my hand in the bag and pulled out a couple more items -- a bottle of sun lotion, a box of condoms, a tube of Astroglide, and a thick, white envelope. "Have ya'll gone crazy? What is all this?"
"Well, that's a box of Trojans, and that's lube, and what you do with them is--"
They all laughed, as I hushed Jethro. "I know what they are, Jethro. What I want to know is why you're giving them to me."
"Open the envelope, Beaver," Skeeter urged, sliding it toward me with the tip of his finger.
Fargo was practically mewling, his hand back at his groin, grabbing and squeezing his crotch, his entire body practically thrumming. "Come on, Beaver, open it!"
"Okay, okay!" I said, laughing as I pried up the flap and
stuck my thumb under it. I ripped it open, pulling out a pair of airline tickets. I held them up, staring at them as if I couldn't quite figure them out. "What the fuck?"
"They're for you and Hank!" Fargo said. Skeeter finally grabbed his hand, and I expect it was none too soon. Another couple of seconds and he'd have pulled one off in his jeans. "From me, Skeeter, Jethro, Little Pete, Big Pete, Shelby Joe, and a lot of the others. Everybody who used to come to Outland pitched in."
"Yup!" Skeeter chimed in. "Two airline tickets and a hotel stay at one of them all-inclusive resorts for a whole week in the islands!"
"It's our way of saying thank you, Beaver," Jethro said. He bent over and kissed the top of my head. "For everything."
"Oh, no, this is too much!" I argued, opening one of the tickets. It was a round-trip, coach, to St. Maarten, dated one year from that very day, plenty of time for me to shed my cast and get through physical therapy. I wasn't sure where St. Maarten's was, but I knew airfare there had to have cost a pretty penny. "Y'all are out of your minds!" I looked at Hank, and saw the same amazement coloring his features that I felt.
Outland Page 18
