He goes white as a sheet and his eyes are like to fall out of his head and his mouth is moving but nothin’s coming out. And the bounty hunter just says, quiet and calm-like, “It’s time, Mortimer.”
And Mortimer, he starts shaking his head, back and forth, back and forth, and he’s mumbling something like “No, not yet, it can’t be, it’s too soon,” and on and on. Then he yanks open one of the drawers in the desk and damned if he don’t come up with a pistol.
And I start to yell something like “Don’t be stupid,” but I don’t get the chance because the bounty hunter has already got a Colt .45 in his fist and he puts two into Mortimer’s chest and Mortimer falls out of his chair and hits the floor and he don’t move any more.
You know, Tommy, I once saw Wild Bill Hickok in action. That was in Abilene years ago, when he was in his prime. Fastest pistolero I ever laid eyes on— until today. In a straight shootout, that no-name son of a bitch would’ve put Hickok in his grave, ten times out of ten.
But Mortimer…. Why would he do something so damn stupid? He was a man of the world, he knows how things work. With his money, he could’ve had the best lawyer in the territory, and with enough left over to maybe put in the pockets of a few jurors. The judge, too, if it came to that.
I mean, I hate corruption. Hate it! But that don’t change the way things are. And that means that a rich man hardly ever hangs, or even goes to prison for long. So why did he panic? Why go for the gun and give that bastard the excuse he needed?
* * *
We sat there together for a while longer, while the daylight slowly bled from the sky and the level in the whiskey bottle got lower and lower. Finally, Pa told me to get on home for supper. He said I should tell Ma that he’d be real late, and not to wait up. I asked him was he going to be okay by himself, but he just shook his head and took another drink.
Our house was a mile or so out of town. And as I rode in the gathering dusk, I kept turning over in my mind the question that had bothered Pa so much: why did a rich man like Mr. Mortimer panic like that? Why go for his gun?
Maybe he was afraid to face a judge who couldn’t be bribed.
I was only about halfway home when I saw the glimmer of a fire through the trees off to my right. Nobody lived on that patch of land, and there was no reason for somebody passin’ through to make a camp there, what with town so close.
I don’t know what made me dismount, tie the horse’s reins to a scrub tree, and creep over that way. Maybe it had something to do with not being in a hurry to get home and explain to Ma why Pa was back at the jail getting drunk.
Or maybe there’s something to that “intuition” stuff, after all.
I was pretty good in the woods, even in the dark. I didn’t make much noise as I slowly worked my way to a spot where I could see the source of that fire.
It was the bounty hunter. Had himself a good-sized campfire going, although there wasn’t anything cooking over it, not even a coffee pot. Both the sorrel horse and the mule were tethered, their saddles off. I was wondering what he had done with Mr. Mortimer’s body when I noticed the mound of freshly turned earth, a shovel on the ground off to one side.
I guess I know a fresh grave when I see one.
I tried to make sense of it all, and couldn’t. I understood why he’d taken Mr. Mortimer’s body with him. With a wanted fugitive, you have to produce the body, alive or dead, to get the price that’s on him. But there was nowhere out here to claim a reward, and if he didn’t want Mortimer’s body for that, then why bring him along in the first place?
And what was he doing down there, sitting on a dead log and fiddling with a couple of long sticks?
Then he stood up, and I could see that the sticks had been joined to make a cross. A grave marker? For the man he had killed a few hours earlier? The bounty hunter hadn’t struck me as the sentimental sort.
He went over to the grave with that crudely-fashioned cross. He started talking— chanting, I guess you’d call it. Some of the words reached me, but I didn’t recognize them. They weren’t English, and they weren’t Spanish, which I’d heard often enough from Mexicans to recognize, even if I didn’t speak it.
This went on for a little bit. Then he stopped, grasped his cross, and jammed it, upside down, into the soft earth that made up Mr. Mortimer’s grave.
Suddenly, the campfire flared up, as if someone had tossed a pint of kerosene on it. When the flames quieted down again, there was someone standing on the other side of the fire.
I couldn’t see him well from my vantage point, but the visitor seemed to be dressed in black robes, the kind a judge wears. I couldn’t figure where he’d come from. One moment nothing, and the next he was just standing there.
The bounty hunter didn’t seem surprised at the man’s sudden appearance. With a nod of his head, he said, “Your Honor.”
“Good evening,” the other said. It was a high, cracked voice, the kind an old man might have. But there was nothing weak or quivery about it.
“We were pleased to welcome the late Mister Mortimer,” the figure in black said. “His contract expired more than six months ago. Thanks to your efforts, he has now followed suit.”
“He wasn’t eager to pay up,” the bounty hunter said. “Went for his gun.”
“Against you? Oh, dear.” The man started to laugh. “Oh dear, gracious me.” The laughter got louder. It wasn’t what you’d call a pleasant sound. The bounty hunter didn’t join in, although I saw his lips stretch a little in what might have been a smile.
The man in the black robes let his laughter trail away. “Well,” he said, “Mr. Mortimer’s foolishness at least allowed you to collect him legally and in public, instead of having to spirit him away somewhere secluded to do the deed. Which reminds me….”
He tossed something underhand that barely cleared the fire before landing at the bounty hunter’s feet. It was greenbacks, tied up into a packet the size of a brick.
I couldn’t see the bills clearly, but even if they were all singles, it was still more cash than I’d set eyes on in my whole life. And I didn’t really think the bills were singles.
The bounty hunter picked up the money, nodded his thanks, and stuffed it away under his serape.
“Where are you off to, next?” the man in black asked.
“El Paso. I hear tell that Wallach’s been seen down there.”
“Well, good hunting, then.” The man in black was suddenly still. It was like he’d heard something, but I swear I hadn’t made a sound— unless he could hear the pounding of my heart. Maybe he could, at that.
He stared in my direction for a few moments, as if he could see me through all the trees and the darkness. Then he said, “That boy from town, the Sheriff’s brat, he’s out there, watching us. Listening, too.” Then he said something that seemed to turn my blood to ice water: “He should be taught a lesson.”
“It don’t matter,” the bounty hunter replied. “Who’s he gonna tell? Who’d believe him? He’d just be writing his own ticket to the booby hatch.”
The man in the black robes kept looking my way for a long time— three, maybe four seconds. Then he turned back to the bounty hunter and nodded a couple of times. “I expect you’re right. Very well, then. I’ll see you in El Paso.”
And then he was gone. Didn’t walk away, ride away, or even disappear in a puff of smoke. But one second he was there, and the next second he just wasn’t.
The bounty hunter threw another few sticks on his fire. Then he said, his voice a little louder than before, “Come on down, boy, if you want to. If not, then go on back to your daddy. Don’t matter none to me.”
My mind was like a boiling pot, bubbling over with thoughts and fears and hopes and dreams. But after a while, I understood that it all came down to a simple choice.
I could grow up to be like my father, who I last saw drowning his fear in a bottle of
whiskey.
Or I could be like the man who made him afraid.
I stood near the fire in that small clearing, facing the bounty hunter. He looked at me without speaking, as if he knew that the next words had to come from me.
They did.
“Teach me,” I said.
* * *
All that was quite a few years back. The man with no name taught me well. I’m a Collector myself, now. There’s plenty of folks out there who make bargains with The Judge, but then try to weasel out of paying when their times comes. So there’s no shortage of work for us Collectors, and the bounty’s real good— the Judge always pays cash on the nail.
I’ve got four or five wanted posters in my saddlebag right now.
Just you pray that one of them doesn’t have your name on it.
* * * * *
The Predators
Dan Bright waved to his daughter Shelly, who had just boarded the school bus and found a seat at the window. She waved back, but was then drawn into a conversation with two other fourth-graders sitting nearby. They were still conferring, solemn as diplomats, when the bus pulled away from the curb.
A few minutes later, Bright let himself in through the front door of his big, old house and walked down the length of the central hallway to the kitchen, from which the scents of breakfast still lingered.
His first step into the kitchen revealed that his wife Marilyn was still sitting at the dinette table, a cup of coffee in front of her. But something had changed: her posture, usually relaxed and lazy in the morning, had given way to tension and alertness.
Bright’s next step showed him why. There was a man sitting opposite his wife, a man with sunglasses and a hat and a gun.
The gun, a big automatic, was resting on the dinette table, its barrel lined up with the center of Marilyn Bright’s chest.
Bright stood perfectly still. The man glanced up, showing no surprise at Bright’s return. “Come on in,” he drawled. “Join the party.”
Before Bright could say anything, another male voice spoke from directly behind him: “Go on, sit down. You won’t be late for work. Hell, they’re not even expectin’ you ‘til around 9:30.”
As Bright walked stiffly over to the table, the first man said with a grin, “Yeah, ain’t that what they call banker’s hours?”
* * *
Louise Fitzsimmons fished a couple of Advil out of the bottle she kept in her desk and washed them down with a mouthful of lukewarm coffee. Every tree, flower and bush in town was apparently blooming this morning, and the pollen had Louise’s sinuses pounding like a jackhammer.
She tried to ignore the pain and concentrate on the computer printout in front of her. It was a record of the bank’s financial activity from the day before and Mister Bright always asked her for a brief summary as soon as he arrived in the morning. She checked the clock on her desk: just past 8:40. No need to hurry, then. It was Louise’s job as Assistant Manager to open up at 8:00, but the bank was closed to customers until 10:00, and Mister Bright never arrived before 9:30. There was plenty of time.
But half a minute later, as Louise looked up at the sound of the employees’ door opening, she realized that there was no time left at all, because Mister Bright, impossibly early, had come through that door and was headed straight for her office. Louise’s headache took a sudden turn for the worse.
Trailing along behind Mr. Bright was a man Louise had never seen before. The stranger wore a Panama hat and aviator-style sunglasses with a navy blue suit, and for an instant Louise flashed on an image of Hannibal “The Cannibal” Lecter from that movie she’d seen on HBO, but she banished the frivolous thought at once.
Nancy Burgess, the head teller, called to the stranger from behind the counter. “Sir, I’m sorry, but the bank isn’t open yet. Sir? Sir!”
Without breaking stride, Mr. Bright turned his head toward Nancy and snapped, “Shut up— he’s with me!”
Even from where she was sitting, Louise Fitzsimmons could see Nancy’s eyes widen. Mr. Bright never talked to employees like that. Hell, Louise had heard him fire people with more politeness than most executives would use when hiring them.
As Mr. Bright reached the door of her office, Louise saw that his face was pale and tight, like a cancer patient whose Demerol is overdue. He plopped into one of Louise’s visitor chairs, but his companion remained standing near the door. After a silent nod to Louise, the stranger turned his attention to the counter, behind which the four tellers were preparing for the day’s business, even as they gossiped in whispers about Bright’s outburst.
“Louise,” Mr. Bright said, “I’ve got a problem, a big one, and I’m going to need your help.”
Louise nodded, her puzzlement growing by the second. Looking up at the other man, she said,
“Sir — I’m, sorry, but I don’t know your name — you’re welcome to sit down, if you like.”
The man turned to her again and, with a slight smile, shook his head. Then he went back to his survey of the tellers.
“Mister Bright,” Louise began, “I don’t—”
“They’ve got Marilyn.”
Louise’s mouth remained open, but no sound came out.
“They’ll kill her if we don’t do exactly what they want,” Bright said grimly.
“They, uh, I mean— they who?”
Bright jabbed a thumb in the direction of the stranger. “This one and his partner.”
Louise closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mister Bright, I don’t mean to be stupid, I really don’t, but I just don’t understand what’s going on.”
Bright took in a big breath and let it out slowly through his nose. “I know, Louise, it’s a shock.” He spoke slowly, deliberately. “I feel like I’ve been pole-axed, myself. But I need you with me on this. Will you help me, Louise?”
Louise had started nodding before Bright finished speaking. “Yessir. Of course, sir. Whatever I can do.”
“All right, then. Let me try to explain this mess we’re in. There isn’t a lot of time.”
Louise nodded again, frown lines furrowing her brow.
“I walked Shelly to the school bus stop this morning. I wasn’t gone more than fifteen minutes. When I got home, there were two strange men waiting, this guy—” Bright pointed with his chin, “—and another one. They must have been waiting for me to leave before they broke in. They had guns. They said they’d kill us both if I didn’t agree to do what they wanted. I believed them. I still do.”
Bright leaned forward in his chair. “They want me to help them rob the bank, Louise.”
Louise Fitzsimmons said nothing, but her eyes started blinking rapidly, making her look like the ingénue in some old silent movie.
“The other man is still in my house, with my wife. She’s a hostage, Louise. Both these guys have cell phones. They showed me.”
As if on cue, the man standing by the office window reached into the pocket of his suit coat and produced a black phone, held it for a moment where Louise could see it, then replaced it in his pocket. He did all of this without once taking his eyes from the tellers’ counter.
“If I don’t do what they want,” Bright said grimly, “or of anything goes wrong, this man will call his partner, who will run. But before he leaves my house, he told me, he’ll take a few minutes to leave me a ‘present,’ as he called it. He said it would be something that would give me an upset stomach for the rest of my life.”
Bright’s voice broke on the last couple of words, but he regained control with a visible effort that took at least half a minute. Finally, he said, “Now you know why I need you on my side, Louise. Will you help me?”
“Of course I will, Mister Bright. Anything you want, you know that.”
“We have to play this their way, until I’m sure that Marilyn is safe. That means no police, no FBI, noth
ing. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And they already know about the various tricks that we use during robberies. They’ve apparently done their homework.” Bright’s voice was bitter. “So, no dye packs, none of the marked bills, no taking bills out of the drawer that sets off the silent alarm. None of that, understand?”
Louise sent a single, terrified glance in the direction of the man in the Panama hat, then turned back to her boss. “Yes, sir, I understand. Completely.”
“I hate this as much as you do, believe me,” Bright said. “But until Marilyn is safe, they’re calling the tune.” He stood up. “They had me bring suitcases in my car, to hold the money. Once I get them, he and I will be going behind the counter, to the tellers’ drawers and then the vault. While I’m out getting the suitcases, I want you to talk to the tellers. Explain the situation, and tell them we need their quiet cooperation. Be very sure you make clear what’s at stake here, all right?”
Louise got to her feet. “Yes sir. You can rely on me, Mister Bright.”
As she walked on unsteady legs toward the tellers’ counter, Louise Fitzsimmons thought about her boss’s wife, who she both knew and liked. Poor Marilyn, she must be terrified. I hope these bastards don’t hurt her.
* * *
At that moment, Marilyn Bright was lying naked and spread-eagled, her wrists and ankles tied to the four posts of the queen-size bed she normally shared with her husband. Her blonde hair was in wild disarray now, her lipstick smeared, her slim body covered with a sheen of perspiration.
The man grunting on top of her was the same one who had been sitting at the family breakfast table when Dan Bright returned from seeing his daughter off to school. The man had been lightly disguised then, with a hat and big sunglasses. But he had taken those articles off some time ago, along with the rest of his clothes.
As the man thrust into her, over and over, Marilyn Bright strained and writhed against her bonds, leaving angry red marks on her flesh. Eyes closed, breath coming in gasps, she was whispering into the ear of the man, whose face was buried in the side of her neck. “Yes, like that, like that, oh God, Steve, yes, just like that, faster, yes, just like that, baby, oh yes, oh my God, yesss….”
The Devil Will Come Page 14
