by JJ Zep
“Mind my asking how they all ended up in custody Sheriff?” Chris cut in. Walcott, he knew, was terrified of the Dumfries brothers and Creed Dumfries in particular.
Walcott cleared his throat, put on his official voice. “At about eight hundred hours this morning Creed and his brothers arrived at the station, him and Colt dragging Clay between them, Clay beaten unconscious. According to them, they were scouting the woods for these Z’s everyone’s been talking about, when Mr. Hoolihan attacked them for no good reason.”
“Bullshit,” Joe spat.
Chris held up a hand to silence him. “Go on Sheriff.”
“Anyhow, I told Creed to take Clay to the hospital while I sent Nathan out to the Hoolihan place to bring Hooley in for questioning.”
“He give you any trouble?”
“He did not,” Walcott admitted. “Even insisted on driving up here in his own truck.”
“And what did Hooley say happened?”
“According to Mr. Hoolihan, the Dumfries boys were squirrel hunting on his property. He asked them to leave whereupon Creed Dumfries urinated in the vicinity of Mr. Hoolihan’s late wife’s grave. Hooley then attacked them, disarmed and beat them.”
“Disarmed and beat them?” Joe exploded. “You’re lucky Hooley didn’t rip off their heads and piss down their throats. Jesus, Theo, they desecrated his wife’s grave.”
“Still,” Walcott said. “Hooley did admit to being the aggressor.”
“Aggressor? An old man facing up to three young bucks packing heat and you’re calling him the aggressor?”
“Let it rest, Joe,” Chris said. He’d seldom seen his friend so angry. He placed a hand on Joe’s shoulder and could feel him quivering underneath. Joe shrugged him off and looked away in disgust.
Chris turned back towards Walcott. On the previous occasions he’d had dealings with Walcott, he’d found the sheriff to be hesitant and none too bright. He never made a decision if he didn’t have to. The way to resolve this was to make the decision for him.
“One thing I don’t understand, Sheriff. If you’re holding Hooley on assault. What are Creed and Colt locked up for?”
“Threatening the life of a law officer.”
Chris raised his eyebrows.
“After they dropped Clay at the hospital, Creed and Colt came back here looking for Hooley. They threatened to kill him, threatened to kill me if I didn’t let them at him. Might have done it too if Nathan hadn’t shown up.” He swallowed hard, went a shade paler just remembering the event.
“Okay,” Chris said. “I get it now. How long do you intend holding them?”
“City council sits on Monday,” Walcott said. “I was figuring on letting them cool their heels for the weekend.”
“I’m not sure that council meeting’s going to happen, Theo. Not with half the councilors headed north as we speak.”
“Hadn’t thought of that,” Walcott said. He looked perplexed.
Chris contemplated a moment. “So how about this,” he said. “How about you release Hooley into my custody and I undertake to bring him before the council once things are back to normality.”
Walcott brought his hand to his chin, appeared to be considering the offer.
“What about the Dumfries boys?” he said.
“Let them out too, if that’s your decision, Sheriff. Of course, if I were you, I’m not sure how I’d feel about those boys wandering around town with their hunting rifles. Especially after they threatened your life.”
seven
Hooley was sitting on the cot in his cell. He looked up when they entered and Chris could see tears in his eyes. That surprised him. Hooley had fallen into a deep depression since Janet’s death, something not even Joe could rouse him from. His disposition seemed to range from maudlin to angry but Chris had seldom seen him look so weak, so vulnerable.
“Yeah, let them tears flow old man,” Creed Dumfries mocked from the cell opposite. He was standing up against the bars, his face twisted into a snarl. “Them tears ain’t gonna save you when we come looking.”
“Shut it, Dumfries,” Joe said.
“Make me.”
Joe made a move towards Creed and Chris caught him by the shirt. “Let it be, Joe. Let’s just get Hooley out of here.”
Sheriff Walcott was rattling the keys in the lock to Hooley’s cell. That brought Dumfries to his feet once again.
Hey,” he said. “What’s this?”
Walcott ignored him. “Mr. Hoolihan,” he said. “I’m releasing you into the custody of Mr. Collins. I must warn you not to leave town and report before the City Council for a hearing when summoned to do so. Do you understand me?”
If Hooley did, he gave no indication. He got up from the cot and walked out of the cell, passing Chris and Joe without a glance.
“You’re letting him go?” Creed Dumfries raged. “But this is bullshit! He attacked us!”
Joe walked over to the cell and Creed took a pace back. Both he and Clay were sporting bruises, in Creed’s case a golf ball sized lump that had turned black and all but closed his right eye.
Joe gave him a grin. “You boys got anyone who’ll vouch for your good character? No? You got the requisite hundred dollars to pay for bail? Then I suggest you shut your yap and do your time.”
“But it ain’t fair,” Creed whined. “He attacked us.”
“Really?” Joe said. “I find it hard to believe that a man old enough to be your granddaddy whipped your ass Creed, even with your brothers backing you up. Are you telling me that’s what happened?”
“He got the drop on us,” Creed said. “Won’t happen again. Next time we’ll kill the old fart. That’s a promise.”
“Tell you what Creed,” Joe said, “Here’s a little promise I’ll make you in exchange. You or your brothers go anywhere near Hooley again, you so much as cast a crooked glance in his direction, and I’ll put you in the ground.”
“You better hope you can back up them words old timer,” Creed sneered, from a safe distance behind the bars.
“Oh, I can.” Joe chuckled. “Believe me.”
They caught up with Hooley outside, walking towards his truck.
“Hey,” Joe called after him. “Hey, Hooley, wait up.”
“I’m going home,” Hooley said over his shoulder.
“Wait up, god damn it!”
Hooley reached the truck, placed his hand on the door handle and turned towards them. Tears brimmed in his eyes. His face looked haggard and hang dog. “Thank you for bailing me out,” he said. “I’m going home now.”
“You shouldn’t be alone,” Joe said. But Hooley had already levered the door open and was sliding in behind the wheel.
“Give him some time, Joe,” Chris said.
“But the Dumfries boys –”
“Walcott said he’d hold them for the weekend, which means we’re good for a few hours before they intimidate him into letting them go. Hooley will be okay for now. We’ll pick him up later. Right now, the best you can do is to leave him be.”
They walked back to the Jeep and got into it. Chris got the engine started just as Hooley made a right from Summit onto Big Bear Boulevard. Hooley had just made the turn when a black Caddie came screaming through the intersection.
“Jesus! Did you see that?”
“That was Charlie,” Chris said. He popped the SUV into drive, floored her and raced towards the intersection. The Caddie was just rounding the bend in the road. He gunned the Jeep and gave chase.
eight
The Caddie hit a right on Garstin and Chris followed, the Jeep cornering on two wheels, crossing the lanes. He straightened the vehicle with a screech of rubber, got her pointed down the middle of the road and slammed his foot down hard on the gas. The Jeep surged forward with a roar. Chris was thankful that the streets were free of traffic. At these speeds an accident would almost certainly be fatal.
“What the hell’s he doing?” Joe said as the Caddie veered across the blacktop, mounted the curb and crossed
the sidewalk. The answer by then was obvious. The vehicle plowed through a row of hedges and cut across the empty parking lot of Community Hospital.
“Hold on,” Chris said and followed the path the Caddie had taken. Moments later he came skidding to a halt, inches from its rear bumper.
Chris threw himself from his vehicle. At the same moment the Caddie’s doors flew open, ejecting Wackjob from the driver’s seat, Charlie from the back. Charlie turned towards him with a look of utter desperation on his face. Chris noticed blood on the front of his shirt, on his hands.
He sprinted towards Charlie. “Are you hit?”
“Not me …” Charlie shook his head and pointed towards the Caddie.
Chris looked inside.
Oh, Jesus!
“…Jojo.”
There was blood in Jojo’s hair, blood on the seat. And Jojo lay so still, so still, that Chris was certain he was dead. Those concerns barely had time to register.
He leaned into the car and grabbed Jojo under the armpits. Then he backed out, bringing Jojo with him.
“Joe,” he shouted as he straightened up. “Get in there! Get a doctor!”
He turned back to Charlie. “Grab his legs. And you, Wackjob, get inside and find a stretcher.”
They carried Jojo towards the hospital. Chris looked down at his son’s pale face, at the thick blood clotted in his blond hair, at the ugly wound on the side of his head. He choked back a cry that threatened to bubble up from somewhere inside him. It seemed a miracle that Jojo was still alive. But he was alive. There was still a chance.
They reached the front doors just as Wackjob pushed through with a wheeled stretcher. Chris angled towards it, lowered Jojo onto the white sheet. Then he and Charlie were running, pushing the stretcher through the hospital foyer at a speed that threatened to upend it. They met Joe coming out of the ER with Dr. Shane Whitfield and Samantha. Whitfield carried one of those manual oxygen pumps in his hand.
Whitfield was the most junior of Community’s three medics, not even a qualified doctor. He was going to have to do. The other two doctors, a husband and wife team, had snuck out of town yesterday, last seen pointed in the direction of Sacramento.
Whitfield leaned in and checked Jojo’s pulse. Then he pushed back Jojo’s eyelids and examined his eyes with a flashlight. He placed his stethoscope to Jojo’s chest, then straightened up and fitted the oxygen mask over Jojo’s nose and mouth.
Samantha clung to her father, sobbing at the sight of her wounded brother, her nursing duties forgotten.
“Sam!” Whitfield shouted at her. “Saline and a morphine drip now! Meet us at the ER.”
He turned to Chris. “What’s your blood type?”
“A-positive, same as –”
“Good. I’m going to need blood. From you too, Charlie.”
“You got it,” Charlie said.
“Bring him,” Doc Whitfield said, already striding towards the ER.
nine
The barroom was bustling with patrons, even at ten in the morning. Ruby pushed through the crowd, holding Pearl close to her. She didn’t like the idea of bringing the little girl in here but she had no choice. No way was she leaving Pearl outside unattended.
They’d made the 25-mile journey from Reno to Carson City on foot, Ruby carrying Pearl for much of the way. She was tired and cranky, in serious need of a bath, not to mention a decent night’s sleep. At least they’d had something to eat, some Good Samaritan directing them to a soup kitchen. The same man had told them that Bob’s Bar was the most likely place for them to find a ride south. He’d warned that it was frequented by low-lifes, bikers and road bandits. The scum of the earth, he’d said, and Ruby could see that he hadn’t been kidding.
The place was raucous with shouts and curses. Somewhere a jukebox was cranking out a country dirge. At a nearby table an arm wrestling contest was going on with bundles of crumpled notes changing hands. The place smelled of rotgut whiskey and puke and sweaty bodies. Someone was smoking a joint and the sickly sweet smell of marijuana added another layer to the stench.
Ruby jostled her way towards the bar counter. She ignored the hands that groped at her butt as she passed, ignored the hungry eyes that tracked her movement. Some of those eyes, she realized with disgust, were focused not on her, but on Pearl.
A cheer went up from the arm wrestling crowd. Ruby elbowed her way past the last few punters and pushed up against the bar counter. Pearl clung to her and she held tight to the child’s hand. She wanted this done, wanted to be out and away from here.
One of the bartenders, a tall, tattooed man with a handlebar moustache siddled in her direction. “What’ll it be?” he said leaning in, his eyes drifting in the direction of her cleavage.
“I’m looking for a ride south,” Ruby shouted over the racket. “Anywhere in the vicinity of San Bernardino will do.”
The man straightened up and gave her a quizzical look. “What will it be to drink?” he said with emphasis on the last to words.
“I don’t want a drink,” Ruby said. “You know of anyone heading south who might be able to take me and my little girl?”
The man leaned forward, looked over the bar to where Pearl stood. He gave Ruby a black-toothed grin. “Might be able to hook you up if you got the dinera, or…ahem…anything else to trade.”
Ruby glared back at him and the smile faded from his lips.
“Thanks for being a good citizen,” she said and turned towards the room.
“Say, I know you.”
Ruby turned towards the sound of the voice. A pretty oriental girl in a blue kimono stood beside her, her face spoiled by too much makeup.
“You’re that kickass, zombie killing type, right?”
Ruby turned away, the last thing she needed right now was a fan.
“No seriously,” the girl said, placing a hand on her arm. “I saw you at the show last week. How’d you learn to fight like that?”
Ruby pushed away from the bar, aimed herself in the direction of the door.
“You need a ride?”
That got Ruby turning. She faced up to the girl. “You got one?”
The girl nodded. “You got money? A hundred dollar?”
Ruby was about to turn away again when another cheer erupted from the arm wrestling table. “Wait here,” she said. “I’ll be back.”
Pushing Pearl in front of her, she made her way across the room, angling towards the arm wrestlers. The crowd around the table had thickened up. Some of the bets being placed were upwards of five hundred dollars, more than enough to pay for a ride.
She ducked past a few punters, forced her way past a few more, working herself into a position from which she could view the action. The two men now engaged in combat were huge. One of them sported a Travis Bickle-style Mohican, every inch of his muscled arms covered in skin art. The other was a black man with a shaven head and piercings in his ears, nose, lips and eyebrows. Right now, he was winning, the other guy’s arm was at half-mast.
The crowd seemed split in their allegiance, some of them cheering for “Dog,” others for “Buck.” Ruby wasn’t sure which variety of animal applied to which man. Then she spotted the initials ‘B-U-C-K’ tattooed across the white guy’s knuckles. He now seemed to be making a recovery, muscles quivering as he inched his arm into an upright position. Dog was fading, Buck gaining the advantage.
It was soon over. Buck slamming Dog’s fist against the tabletop. The crowd roared its approval. Buck jumped to his feet sending his chair tumbling. He struck a body building pose and let out a roar of victory. Then he snatched up a pitcher of beer from an adjoining table, downed half of it and poured the rest over his head.
Ruby watched as Buck’s handler, a skinny, rat-faced man in a powder-blue suit and string tie, scooped up the winnings. Buck, meanwhile, slumped into the chair and awaited his next challenger.
“Who’s next?” the rat-faced manager declared, once he’d stuffed the winnings into an already bulging bank bag. “Who wants a piece o
f the Buckmeister?”
Nobody spoke.
“Come on,” Rat-face said. “What are you all, a bunch of pussies? We got money here folks.” He held up the bag. “Who wants it?”
Still no one accepted the challenge. It had gone quiet around the table.
“Tell you what,” Rat-face said. “I’ll lay you odds three to one, fuck it, five to one. A C-note gets you five, hombres. Who’s playing?”
“I’ll take some of that action,” Ruby said.
ten
Every eye turned towards Ruby, most of them incredulous. For a moment, you could have heard a pin drop in the barroom. Then a babble of conversation started up, supplemented by laughter.
“Am I going to have to go ten to one?” Rat-face continued, ignoring Ruby’s challenge. “You guys are killing me here. Okay, okay, ten to one. Who’s up?”
“I said I’ll take it,” Ruby cut in. “I’ll take it at even money.”
Rat-face turned towards her, appraised her with his beady eyes. “Beat it girl,” he sneered, showing yellowed teeth. “We’re talking serious business here. Split before you find yourself on the wrong end of an ass-kicking.”
Ruby ignored him. She reached behind her and got a hand on her sword, unsheathed it in a whisper of steel. The crowd gasped, shuffled back. Alarm sprung into Rat-face’s eyes. Ruby placed the sword on the table.
“This here’s a katana,” she said, “a genuine Samurai sword. It’s worth at least a thousand on the open market, but for the purposes of this contest I’m prepared to stake it for a hundred. The Buckmeister here wins, he keeps the sword, I win, you give me a hundred dollars. What do you say?”
“I say, get the fuck out of here and go play patty cake with your brat before I –”
“I accept,” Buck said, overruling his manager. He angled his head up, looked Ruby in the eyes, indicated for her to sit in the chair opposite.
“What the fuck, Bucky?” Rat-face blurted. “You’re making us look bad here, like some kind of novelty act.”
