"Git outta here! We do not serve kids!" The bartender yelled so fiercely that several of the patrons looked up momentarily before returning to their drinks. Alex was incredibly frustrated. This guy was not only refusing to listen to him, he was insulting him. this was no longer a matter of information, this was a matter of pride.
Sarah must have known what he was going to say because she put a hand on his arm. "Alex…don't! Don't say anything!"
He pushed her hand away. "I would like to know," he said angrily, "why you will give a drink to him," he gestured to the boy at the end of the bar, "and not me! He can't be older than thirteen!"
The bartender looked at him for a long time like it was the stupidest thing Alex could have said. Finally he spoke.
"New in town, ain't ya?"
"We're passing through."
"What the hell's that mean?"
"It means I would rather not explain it."
"Okay, then," the bartender said in a stage whisper. "That kid there is Hart McGee. His father's Roy McGee. I give him beer because if I didn't he could kick my ass."
Alex laughed out loud. "Him!? You've got to be twice his size and three times his age!"
The bartender shook his head and said simply, "You never met Roy McGee."
No matter which way Alex thought of the situation, it seemed too easy to be true. "How about this," he said finally. "I'll fight this Hart McGee. If I win, you give me a drink. If I lose, I'll leave your bar. You'll never see me again."
The barkeep's eyes widened in shock, but his expression turned eventually to obvious amusement and delight. "You've got a deal. Hey, Hart!"
The boy turned his head. "Told you not to interrupt me when I'm drinkin'." As he spoke, Alex noticed something odd--his accent, which should have been Canadian, was instead closer to American Midwestern.
"This kid here," the bartender gestured toward Alex, "fancies himself a drifter. What's more, he thinks he can fight you."
Hart's eyes narrowed with cold scorn. "You? You think you can beat me?"
Sarah and Anthony had retreated to the fringes, and each looked worriedly at the other. Alex had evidently gone even more insane that they had pegged him for. Word of the fight spread quickly through the room, and soon the patrons had formed a ring, and were shouting--cheering? Demanding blood?
Alex and Hart were left in the center of the ring, circling each other. Hart looked determined and positively angry that somebody, least of all this kid, had even challenged him. Alex, however, looked very wary, but still somewhat cool.
"Look at him!" Anthony whispered. "He's not even scared!"
"He's scared," Sarah replied disdainfully. "He's just good at hiding things."
In the center of the circle the noise from the yelling and chanting was so loud as to drown out voices. Alex shouted over the din. "How are you!?" he called over to his opponent. "I'm Alex Or--AAAARGH!"
Hart's massive fist had collided with his face and he had collapsed on the floor. He forced himself up, spitting blood and blinking stars out of his eyes, just in time to see a second blow racing for his forehead. Quickly, he reacted, dodging underneath it and leaping across to the other side of the makeshift arena.
"That's not very nice, you know!" Alex shouted. "I'm trying to introduce myself!"
"Shut up!" Hart shouted back, and raced for Alex again. Alex moved to the side and Hart fell into the crowd. Several of them pushed him back in and he faced Alex again.
"Now we're talking face to face," Alex said, grinning, "I don't have to yell. I'm Alex Orson. Nice to meet you!"
Enraged, Hart threw a right hook toward Alex's skull. However, his anger at being taunted had made him throw the punch wildly. Alex was able to throw both his hands in front of it, and forced with all his might, countering the blow.
"I don't want to hurt you, Hart! If you want we can stand here for hours while you batter the air to death," he said, as Hart staggered backwards. The crowd was booing and hissing now; whether at Alex for not fighting or at Hart for not crushing him, neither of them new.
"Ya said ya wanted to fight him!" somebody called. "Now fight him!"
"Grind him intah powder, Hart!" yelled somebody else. "Ye know ye can do it! What are ye waitin' for!?"
"Stand still!" Hart grunted, swinging his fists at Alex, who was now staying one step ahead of him, dodging out of reach. "Or at least throw a goddamn punch, ya coward!"
But even as Hart spoke, he felt what was happening. He was tiring--with each blow it became harder for him to swing his fists. This kid, Alex Orson, was the hardest target he had ever faced. He dodged some punches, and blocked others with his hands, but still he refused to attack. Orson was beating him, and he was not even fighting. Alex, in fact, was still smiling.
"I can't see what's going on!" Sarah said, desperately trying to jump over the heads of the crowd. "From the noise, I'd say he's winning…but…"
"Impossible!" Anthony said, shaking his head. "He couldn't win! Alex can't fight worth a damn, I've seen that!"
Back in the circle Hart was growing steadily weaker. He had hit Alex a few times, but never where he was aiming for. Alex leapt away from another blow and looked into Hart's eyes. "Named for the mountain, right? Hart Mountain?"
"None…of your…business!"
"Whatever you say."
"Punch…me…dammit!"
Alex felt the time was right. "If you insist."
Forcing all his might behind the punch, he threw his fist sideways into Hart's head. Hart slumped onto the ground, and moved no more.
Nobody moved. Nobody said a word. The eyes of the entire bar were on the boy who had somehow knocked out Hart McGee.
Sarah and Anthony were both completely struck dumb. "He actually won," Sarah whispered, not quite believing it.
Alex looked up at the bartender. "He's unconscious. What do I do with him?"
The bartender looked at him blankly. Then he said, "It's all right. He's been knocked out before. Take him ter his house, at the end of the street behind the bar."
"Thank you," Alex said. "Sarah! Anthony!" he called. "Help me carry him!"
As they dragged Hart's body out of the still-silent bar, they heard the barkeep's voice behind them. "Do ye want yer drink?"
"I didn't want a drink!" Alex called behind him. "I wanted to know that I could get a drink!"
They rifled through Hart's pockets to find a key that looked right and used it to open up the door. Hart McGee's house was small and dingy, with only a kitchen that looked like it was never used, a bedroom that doubled as a living room, and a small bedroom. They heaved him onto the bed, which seemed to be the only one--apparently, nobody else even lived here.
"While he's still out," Anthony said, a glint in his eye, "he won't mind if we use his shower."
Mercifully, the remote village appeared to have running water, and after taking turns they felt cleaner than they had in weeks, even though the shower was weak and there was no soap. After that, they went to sit in Hart's bedroom. After what felt to Alex like about an hour, he groggily stirred.
"Where am I?" he asked predictably.
"You're in your house," Alex said.
"How did I get here?"
"I knocked you out, remember?"
Hatred suddenly flashed across Hart's eyes. He rose up and made to grab at Alex with one hand. Evidently, however, the strain was too much for him, and he collapsed back on the bed with a defeated gurgling sound. "Okay," he sighed. "How much?"
"What?"
"How…much…do…you…want?" Hart said slowly, as though Alex did not speak English.
"You mean money?"
"We do need money," Anthony began, but Sarah slapped him and he remained quiet.
"We don't want money," she said.
Hart looked genuinely confused. "You knocked me out and you don't want a reward?"
"Why would I want a reward?" Alex inquired.
Hart sighed. "Because it's my job. I fight people for money. If I win, I get money. If I
lose, you get money. It's simple."
"We don't want money," Sarah said, as a pained expression lingered on Anthony's face. "We just need you to tell us a few things."
Alex suddenly grasped what she was talking about. He hated to admit it when Sarah was right, but she had had a good idea.
"First, is there anywhere here where we can sleep?"
"This guy runs a sort of motel on Main Street. It's pretty cheap."
"Second, is there anywhere we can get food?"
"There's a general store on the same street. They sell some stuff," his eyes lingered on Alex's clothes, "and they sell shirts, too."
"That's good to know. And third…"
"What? What's third?"
Alex grinned again, a glint in his eye. "Do you have any guns? And do you have any ammo?"
Hart looked at him, wondering what Alex would need with guns, and then he nodded. "I have a pistol. And a lot of bullets."
"That's all I need to know," Alex said. "Thank you, Hart. Get some rest."
As he walked out of the room, Hart called to him.
"Alex. I…"
"Yeah?"
"You're…sort of a drifter, right?"
"I wouldn't call it that."
Hart's face had softened from his usual cold stare to a pitiable expression. "I want to come with you."
Alex was taken aback. "What?"
Hart gestured around the house. "My life sucks. It doesn't take a genius to know that."
"Hart, you're…you're the most respected person in the town. And you're only thirteen."
"I beat people up! I get paid! I have no family! I have no friends! I could only rely on fighting to get me through life…and then you just walk in and beat me by throwing one punch. I've got some serious rethinking to do."
Alex considered for a long time. Finally, he looked up.
"All right."
They agreed that Hart would meet them on the road leading out of town the following morning. As they walked out of the house, Anthony blew up at him.
"Have you lost your mind!?"
"Anthony, what is the--"
"The last thing in the world we need right now is somebody else tagging along!"
Alex did not know what to say. "I…um…he…"
Sarah saved him.
"Hart's right about himself, Anthony. He lives by himself and fighting is his entire life. If he comes with us…he'll get a second chance. And he deserves that. Everybody deserves that."
"She's right, Anthony. Remember when I met you? You had that wound in your side. I was suspicious. And you still haven't told me where it came from."
Anthony hesitated for a moment, choosing different words to say but always dropping them the moment they left his mouth. Finally, he exploded again.
"I was selling drugs, okay!?"
"Huh!?" said Alex and Sarah at the same time.
"I was selling drugs! I wanted…I wanted to get back at my stupid parents! Worthless, fat, lazy slobs! Never cared about me at all! I figured, what would they think if their kid was a drug dealer!? But I had this one client who was insane…if I was ever late with his fix he'd start raging…one day he just went a little farther than usual."
And he lifted up his shirt to point out the bandaged gash.
They replenished their stores of food and bought several plain shirts each at the general store, throwing their grimy old clothes in the garbage.
After that they bought a room in the motel. Late that night, Anthony was asleep and snoring loudly. Sarah, sleeping on the sofa, turned to Alex.
"Alex?"
"Yeah?" he said sleepily.
"Do you think we can do it?"
"Do what?"
"Everything. The train. Sawtooth. Living on our own."
Alex rolled over in his bed. "If I think either way it won't change what happens."
"You're dodging the question."
"I am not. We can't say what will happen. We have to make it ourselves."
CHAPTER 16
William X
Machry stared at the writing scrawled on the treehouse wall with a kind of mysterious amazement, rereading the words, "Charles Johnson, William X" over and over again, knowing they meant something important but not understanding at all what they meant, no matter how many times he read them.
He needed a lead badly, he knew it. He had to figure out Ordoñez's motives. From what he had figured out to save Alex, it made sense that Ordoñez was the killer of the three men--he had, after all, been the only one at every crime scene. But why was he doing this? Was he aiming to frame Alex? Aiming directly for Alex? And whom did he work for?
Machry slowly climbed down the rope ladder, thinking hard. The soft crunches of his footfalls on the snow mirrored the workings of his mind: ideas, falling slowly, resting underfoot, and then crunching as he realized that explanation after explanation was preposterous.
In his job, he had learned one valuable piece of advice: when you're getting information, the first thing you need to know is who's giving it to you. By that token, he first needed to know who had written the cryptic words.
There was a small art supply store in downtown Woodsbrook. Half an hour later Machry returned to the treehouse with a large piece of thin paper and some dark pencils, and set about tracing the scrawling, which looked as though they had been made in marker. He knew that only three people had been in this treehouse since it was built: Alex Orson, Jake Harwell and Sarah Jones. Alex, he could already check.
Back in his office Machry pulled a sample of Alex's handwriting, which Jake had donated to him. It was a very odd situation: Machry needed Alex's signature, but Jake didn't want him to know he was being represented or he may not have left. Thus, Jake found an old piece of homework, which Alex had signed at the bottom, and Machry had copied his signature, knowing that if Alex had heard what was going on, he would have given his consent simply because of the ingenuity of the plan.
Machry rifled through his desk and found the paper, then used the office copier to make a smaller copy of the scrawling. Looking at the writing, he suddenly realized he had a problem: in his rush to investigate he had forgotten that he was not an expert in handwriting analysis.
He looked up from his desk, as if hoping a solution would appear in front of him. Instead, he saw Dave, his fellow social worker, reading a stack of papers and growing more evidently bored with each one. Suddenly, a thought struck Machry.
"Hey, Dave?"
Dave looked up, glad for an excuse to drop the papers. "Yes? Need something, Henry?"
"Your brother--what's his name? Gary, that's it. He's a cop, isn't he?"
Dave looked puzzled. "Um, yes…something been stolen from you?"
"Well…" Machry was not quite sure how to explain his situation. "I have a matter on my hands which I think is slightly above my pay grade. Or for that matter, anybody's here."
Comprehension dawned on Dave and he groaned. "Henry! You're not still obsessing over Orson!"
"I think I've found a lead."
"He's dead! Gone! It no longer matters whether he was a killer or not!"
"Dave, I know who did it. I need to know why. I found something written on the wall of his treehouse, and I think I have to have some sophisticated technology. Only problem is, I don't want the cops in on this or they'll shut me out of the investigation."
Dave considered for a moment, screwing up his face. Then he said, "I guess I can't change your mind. I'll get Gary on the phone."
"Thanks a lot, Dave. I really mean that."
"I'm just warning you, Machry. It's for your own safety that I'm telling you to drop this. The trail might lead to people you don't want to associate with."
The next morning Machry found himself in the office of WPD Police Sergeant Gary Henderson, sitting across the table from a man who looked a lot like Dave, only more stern, weather-beaten and weary, and probably older. "So, I hear from my brother you have something you'd like to run through the machines?"
Machry shifted u
ncomfortably in his seat--the man's presence was imposing. "Yes, sir. Your electronic handwriting analyzer?"
Gary rose from the desk and exited the office, motioning for Machry to follow. He did, and was led through the bustling station into a room filled with technology, all of which looked like it was often used and very expensive. Gary pointed at one machine.
Cold Snow: A Legal Thriller Page 17
