A Host of Shadows

by Harry Shannon

  Pike laughed. “What?”

  “As already mentioned, I have hunted in my time, but never the most dangerous game of all, never man. I would like to experience that before I’m gone.”

  “Okay, let me get this straight. You plan to hunt and kill me?”

  “Just so.”

  Pike sneered, shivered. “Oh, I’m so scared.”

  “I know it sounds foolish at this point,” Smith said. “But I do so want you to feel those waves of intense dread and forbidding you have so frequently inflicted upon others, at least once in your life. It seems only fair.”

  Pike set his gun sideways on the table, in plain view. He kept his finger on the trigger. “Like I said a few minutes ago, old Tap is pretty much deaf, and he’s nodding off over there. He’s also bought and paid for, so whatever happens next, he won’t be talking to the cops about it.”

  Smith smiled. “You forget that I have finally come to quite enjoy the sensation of fear, Mr. Pike.”

  “I hope for your sake that this is Reggie’s idea of a practical joke.”

  “I’m sorry.” Smith pursed his lips. “Regretfully, our friend Reggie is dead. I shot him through the right eye with a .22 automatic. I have read in mystery novels that the shells rattle around better in the skull that way.”

  “You’re nuts.”

  “Perhaps I am.” Smith winked, lewdly. “Hey, don’t worry. I came here unarmed, just as I promised.”

  Pike stared and then took out his cell phone with his free hand, hit autodial, waited. His stomach felt sour. After three rings Reggie answered. “Yeah?”

  Pike felt relieved. “Reggie, it’s me, Pike.”

  “I can’t talk right now,” Reggie said, briskly. “Call me later.” The line disconnected. Pike folded his cell phone and clipped it back on his belt. He considered the man before him. Meanwhile, Smith rubbed his temples like a man with a headache coming on. When he looked up, his expression was again timid and uncertain, like a man recovering from a hallucination. Pitt grimaced with frustration. Smith was clearly a full-on psychotic.

  “Let’s take a walk.”

  “Please, no.” Smith whimpered, shook his head. He looked pale. He kept his hands in plain sight. “I don’t want to go outside.”

  “You’re really something,” Pike said, admiringly. “You’re probably a fruit loop, but I have to admit you’ve got guts.”

  “Do you know Elliot?”

  “Elliot who?”

  “T.S. Thomas Stearns Eliot, Mr. Pike. Have you read him?”

  “Some,” Pike said. He was now honestly baffled.

  Mr. Smith closed his eyes and recited from memory. His tenor voice was clear and resonant and brought the poem alive. “You know only a heap of broken images, where the sun beats and the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief. And the dry stone no sound of water. Only there is shadow under this red rock. Come in under the shadow of this red rock and I will show you something different from either… Your shadow at morning striding behind you, or your shadow at evening rising to meet you.” Smith opened his eyes. “I will show you fear in a handful of dust.”

  Pike leaned down closer to the pack of smokes he’d placed on the table. “Willie, we’re on the way out.” He tucked the pack into his coat.

  Smith blinked. He looked around the room as if bewildered. “Who were you talking to?”

  Pike glanced at Tap, who had clearly fallen asleep. He aimed the gun at Smith’s head, but did not pull the trigger. He abruptly reached across the table, seized Smith by the thumb and painfully turned his wrist. The smaller man yelped and got to his feet, following Pike’s lead.

  “Ouch, that hurts!”

  “Keep it down, or I’ll do you right here and now.”

  “Ow!”

  Pike wrist-walked Smith to the door, the Firestar pointed down at the floor. He poked his head outside. There was no traffic on the highway, although he could see a pair of headlights in the distance, coming closer. He yanked Smith close and whispered in his ear. “You’ve stepped in it now, buddy.”

  “Please,” Smith gasped. “It was a joke. I already said you can keep the money, just don’t hurt me, okay?” The reddened eyes had gone glassy again. He’s definitely on some kind of heavy medication.

  “What were you thinking, pal?”

  “I only wanted to see what a real hit man was like before I died, that’s all. I really am sick. It was just a bad joke. I made up all the rest of it on the spot, just to see what you’d do.”

  “You’re a lying sack of…” Pike dragged him through the batwing doors and down the dusty wooden steps. The desert night was cool and crisp and huge stars speckled a deep, blue sky.

  “No! I really wasn’t lying about being sick, just about the rest of it. I’ve been under psychiatric care, and they say I’m getting better.”

  Pike released his wrist, kicked the seat of his pants. Smith was visibly trembling now. He began to sob. He stumbled around the side of Tap’s and closer to the pickup truck parked in the darkness. When he saw the broad-shouldered cowboy standing next to it holding a tire iron, he cried out again. “God, please don’t kill me!”

  Pike kicked him again. “Did you think I’d be here alone? Willie’s worked with me for years. He’s got enough equipment in that truck to block any signal but our own, and enough firepower to take on the National Guard.”

  “So this is the big man?” Willie uncrossed his massive arms. “He’s moving around a lot. You want I should kneecap him first?”

  Pike briefly considered the idea, but shook his head. “Wait a second, Willie.” He walked back down the gravel driveway and peered into the night. The headlights up the road were almost upon them. Pike called out: “Lose the tire iron, we got company.”

  Something clattered into a pile of trash at the back of the building. Willie puffed on his cigar again, the orange tip showering sparks. For a long moment, Smith’s pale and terrified face was visible, like a reflection of the full worm moon.

  Pike saw the rack on the top of the Highway Patrol car and his stomach tightened. “Stand him up, Willie,” he said softly,” and pour some booze on him in case we need to knock him out.”

  Pike slipped the 9mm in the back of his belt and walked back toward the porch. The patrol car pulled into the driveway, spraying gravel; faint but incessant radio chatter flooded the air. After a long moment, a bucolic looking young officer with short red hair and a gut slipped out of the driver’s door. He stood so that the vehicle remained between them and nodded.

  “How y’all doing tonight?”

  “Just fine, officer,” Pike said, pleasantly. “I was about to drive away when I remembered I hadn’t paid my tab.”

  “Tap okay in there?”

  “You know Tap.” Pike paused in the doorway and grinned. “He was sleeping two minutes ago.”

  “Hang on there a second,” the young cop said. “Stay where you are.” He left the engine running and walked around the front of the car, hand on the butt of his Glock. His shadow spread a pool of ink on the cracked plaster wall. Pike froze, but subtly let his own fingers crabwalk back toward his own gun. The cop trudged up the steps. He shined his flashlight in Pike’s face. Blinded, Pike flinched and looked away.

  “What’s your name, friend?”

  “Gavin Hollenbeck,” Pike replied, using the name on his fake driver’s license and bogus credit card.

  “What you doing out here, Mr. Hollenbeck?”

  “Just passing through on my way down to Vegas to have some fun.”

  “You call us about a broken down car?”

  “No, I sure didn’t.”

  “Maybe old Tap did it, then?”

  “If he did, he didn’t say anything to me about it, officer.”

  The cop peered over the top of the batwing doors. Pike considered dropping him on the spot, one quick shot to the back of the head, but before he could go for the Firestar the kid had changed position again. He turned off the flashlight. “Tap’s sleeping, all rig
ht. How much you owe him?”

  Pike opened his wallet and produced a ten dollar bill. “Couple of beers and a tip, that’s all.”

  Someone coughed by the side of the building. The cop stiffened and flicked the flashlight back on. “Who’s that, Mr. Hollenbeck?”

  Pike took a deep breath. “I don’t know, just a couple of guys standing around having a beer, I’d expect. One of them has a big old cigar, and Tap doesn’t like smoke, right?”

  The cop took two steps, froze. “I thought you said you were just passing through, Mr. Hollenbeck. You know old Tap?”

  “I am just passing through,” Pike covered, and gently produced a pack of smokes. “He just said to go outside, that I couldn’t light up.”

  “You there,” the cop called. The cop was tense again. His hand was back on his Glock. “Come on out in the light, where I can see you.”

  Pike let himself drift back to the batwing doors. He wanted to be able to duck inside, if needed cover. Smith came over first, looking washed-out and disheveled. His hands were shaking and he now stank of whiskey. Willie appeared behind him, half in the gloom. Pike signaled with his eyes for Willie to keep calm until Pike could decide what to do. The cop looked Smith up and down and chuckled.

  “What’s your story?”

  The chastened Mr. Smith eyed the scene and shrugged. He clearly didn’t want to get caught in a shoot-out. “I only had a couple of drinks, officer,” he said. He belched and his face sagged. “I wasn’t feeling too good anyway, and after that I really got really sick.”

  The cop stepped a couple of feet to his right, widening the distance. His eyes focused. “Who’s that with you?”

  “Who?” Smith covered perfectly. “Oh, he’s just somebody who was helping me out. Man, the poor guy comes outside here for a peaceful smoke and I suddenly show up and start barfing.”

  The silence mounted. The cop was clearly suspicious. One in the temple, hide the body out back. Pike came within inches of firing, but suddenly the patrolman relaxed. “Can you drive?”

  Smith nodded a bit too enthusiastically and dug out his keys. “Sure can.”

  “Then get on your way,” the cop said. “Beat it.”

  Damn.

  Pike and Willie watched helplessly as Smith jogged to a rented Pinto, slipped in and started the engine. He backed out onto the highway and vanished into the night. The cop strolled back to his patrol car. “You two gentlemen have a nice night.”

  Pike clenched his teeth. “You too, officer.”

  “And Mr. Hollenbeck?”

  It took Pike a second to respond to the name. “Yes, sir?”

  “Don’t you forget to give old Tap that ten bucks, okay?”

  The cop peeled out and the night went silent, except for the sawing of crickets down near the creek bed. Willie walked a little closer, boots crunching in the gravel. He seemed worried. “What you want me to do, boss? Should I try to catch up to that crazy little prick?”

  “Maybe.” Pike’s pulse was still racing. He considered it for a long beat, finally sighed. “No, let him go for now. We can track him down through Reggie when we get back home.”

  “Man, that dude had one strange idea of a fun evening.”

  “No kidding, Willie. And you can bet I’m going to have a long talk with Reggie about this.”

  “You believe the nerve of some people?”

  Pike barked a laugh. “Nerve is right. We’ve sure got to give him that.” He cracked his neck and hitched up his trousers. “Wait here, I need to use the john.”

  Inside, Tap was facedown on the bar, snoring. Pike went into the single restroom, which stank of urine and disinfectant. He did his business, washed his hands. He blew out some breath and looked at himself in the cracked mirror. His eyes were clear. He raised his hand and held it out, palm flat. He was not trembling.

  Gratified, Pike smiled at himself, splashed water on his face and went back out into the sawdust-filled room. Tap had apparently gone to bed; the bar was empty. Pike flipped his cell phone open and hit redial.

  “Yeah?”

  “God damn it, Reggie…”

  “…right now, call me later.”

  “Hello?”

  Puzzled, Pike dialed again. The same thing happened. Pike scowled. Reggie’s answering machine was programmed to say: “Yeah? I can’t talk right now, call me later.” After that, it would disconnect.

  Pike sat down slowly in a folding chair. He dialed another number. “Jake? It’s me. Don’t say anything. Have you seen Reggie tonight?” The color left his face. “No, I’m just asking.” He closed the phone, got unsteadily to his feet.

  “Willie?”

  No answer. Pike kicked the chair out of the way and strode outside. “Willie, where the hell are you?” He took out his Firestar and slid down the wall, weapon raised. Somehow he knew what he would find. Willie was behind the wheel of the truck with a tiny hole in his head and his chest wet and dark. The tires had been slashed, the keys were missing. Pike jogged over to his rented Mustang, also certain what he’d find. The distributor cap was missing and wires had been pulled. Pike screamed at the stars.

  “Bastard!”

  A thrumming insect flew past his ear. Something bit him. Pike growled and felt the side of his head. A small, fleshy part of his cheek was bleeding. He rolled across the wooden steps and down into the shadows beneath the porch. Another puff of dirt exploded near his legs, and this time he heard the faint echo of the shot.

  “Smith, Goddamn you!”

  Pike broke and ran, in a crossing pattern, through the sand and the skeletons of dead sage. He scrambled down into a gulley, his heart thudding in his chest. He knew he’d never make it out of Dry Wells, not wearing these expensive shoes. Another shot, a ricochet off a nearby flat rock that whined into the hard packed dirt. God, he’s got a night scope.

  Pike went for the cell phone again, started to dial 911. Suddenly the phone and the tips of three fingers disappeared in a spray of blood freckled with shards of plastic and bone. Pike screamed like a woman dying in childbirth, ran as fast as he could, on and on through a vivid desert night that seemed to last forever. For the very first time he came to know the fear in a handful of dust.

  Lucky

  Joe Case slept sitting up for three nights running, long Henry rifle across his dirty knees. No fires. He ate dried beef and biscuits at dawn before urging the mare on through the rocks, always moving west. When he finally hit a sudden stretch of flat, grassy ground well before sunset it was a welcome change, but Case didn’t think of it as lucky. A man made his own luck. This was likely the edge of someone’s spread, and other folks generally meant trouble.

  Case got to the edge of a thick clump of Cottonwoods. He stretched, turned in the saddle, and took one last look back at the jagged ridge line. The air smelled of burnt metal. A thin spider web of lightning tattooed darkening clouds. He saw no sign of the three angry cowboys who wanted him dead. Case had gunned down their friend after a drunken card game. He’d been on the run for more than a week, but the only thing following him now was a steadily weakening storm.

  A few seconds later thunder growled and the sky spat. A few thick drops of rain drummed along the brim of his hat. Case rode on, and soon could hear the music of a nearby stream growing wider and deeper as the mountains overflowed. He licked his parched lips.

  The mare whinnied softly, smelling that fresh water. Case stopped, patted her head, sat listening to faint wind in the trees, something furry rustling in the tall grass. A po’ will whistled from a clump of manzanita maybe a quarter mile below. Finally another horse answered the thirsty mare. Just one? Thirsty but cautious, Case loosened the Henry, left the tree line and let the mare walk.

  The storm hung itself up in the hills like a drunken Mescalero, and for a time just kind of spun in a circle as if unable to decide which way to go. Case was happy to beat it down the hill. The creek was louder now, off to his right. He got to the edge of a thick orchard, dismounted and walked, with the horse as a shiel
d. He looked around, squinted. The afternoon shadows were lengthening steadily, stroking the damp earth. Sunset was maybe an hour off, tops.

  When he entered the darkening trees, Case felt his small hairs flutter, a gut instinct acquired after years of calculated risk. He knew there was no way the cowboys could have gotten around and so far in front of him. If this was a trap, it was someone else. Apache, maybe? Case fondled the rifle.

  He found the other pony, a gaunt palomino, tied to a dead trunk. She nickered again. Could be she was thirsty. If so, she’d been tied up for a while. He knelt in the dirt and read the ground. Signs of some kind of struggle, boot heels mixed in with bare feet, hooves, some moccasin tracks here and there. No blood.

  Case got up, went to the palomino. Eyes on the trees, he loosened the knot and let her go free. She trotted into the brush and he heard her crash down into the streambed to drink. Case let his own horse go next, and moved away and down. He went flat to have himself a look-see and edged into some mud, rifle ready. Peered over the edge of the bank, looked down.

  To the northeast he saw a waterfall that pretty much sealed off that side of the mountain. Then the ridge line he’d come over some time before. Across the stream, woods. He looked south, scanning the banks as his vision shifted. More tracks, a lot of them going back and forth and in and out of the water on the opposite side, but hard to say how many horses from this far off. Case rose a bit, moved his head. Some motion caught his eye and he hunkered down again.

  Closer to the bank, a young white woman stood knee-deep in the freezing water. Case couldn’t quite take it in at first, but then realized she was busily washing herself between the legs. He crawled closer. Her clothing was torn, and someone had bloodied her a tad. Even from yards away it was plain she had bruises and scrapes. Case watched her for a while. He wanted to be sure she was alone, that he hadn’t just stepped in a pile of shit. The sight was easy on his eyes, anyway. He hadn’t been with a woman in weeks, and this one had a nice, ripe body.