by Scott Blade
Wagner said, “You gotta ride in the back. It’s policy.”
Widow nodded. It was policy just about everywhere for non-cops to ride in the back.
The seat was warm, as if it had just been emptied of prisoners. But then Widow realized it was because the air conditioner vents in the back weren’t blowing anything. Maybe that was why Wagner had it blasting in the front?
Widow sat and didn’t buckle his seatbelt. He stared forward. And felt the car accelerate, slow at first and then hard. It moved forward and a little north and east.
They drove on for about ten more minutes, yet it felt like an eternity because of the dynamics .
Widow was in the back of a cop car, uncomfortable because he hated being under arrest. Even though he wasn’t. It all felt the same to him.
Chapter 3
W AGNER DROVE them both down the cracked, unnamed road until it came to a fork, which was clearly more inviting to the north, which Wagner took.
“What’s the other way?”
“That leads to the other side of a lake. There are campgrounds and hunting cabins out there.”
“What kinds of hunting goes on here?”
“Anything.”
“Anything?”
“In New Hampshire, it’s legal to hunt pretty much anything: deer, moose, even black bear. If you got a license and it’s hunting season, then you can kill it.”
They drove in silence until Widow tried to make small talk.
He said, “Daniel Webster Highway?”
Wagner kept the car going the less inviting route and said, “Yeah, back there was Daniel Webster Highway. He was from here.”
“And Hellbent. And the crossroads.”
Wagner stayed quiet .
Widow said, “Is there a story about that? Something to do with the book? Or urban legend?”
“Say what? Urban what?”
Widow turned his head, figured that Wagner didn’t get it. So, he just stared out the window and watched the plush green forests go by.
Wagner continued to be on the subject, maybe out of curiosity about what Widow was asking about, but probably because he saw it as an opportunity to discover more about the drifter.
Wagner said, “Daniel Webster was a politician from here. That’s why the highway.”
Widow just nodded.
“Is that why you were asking?”
“I was asking if there was some kind of reasoning for it.”
“For what?”
“For the highway?”
Wagner looked blank.
Widow said, “The crossroads?”
Nothing.
“The town of Hellbent?”
Wagner shook his head. He didn’t get it.
“The Devil and Daniel Webster ?”
Wagner glanced between the road ahead and the rearview mirror at Widow’s reflection.
He asked, “The what? What’s the devil got to do with us?”
Widow shook his head, slowly, and turned back to the window.
“Never mind.”
Chapter 4
T HE ROAD LED THEM between thick, leafy canopies from the branches of substantial northern hardwood trees, which grew on all sides. Low, green carpets of leaves and grass and brush skirted the ground, hiding indigenous woodland creatures, Widow figured. Most of which were harmless rodents, and migrant birds, and probably different species of frogs and lizards. But there were also going to be snakes and bears. And probably mountain lions or some kinds of wild cats.
Wagner had slowed because most of the road was covered in muddy rain puddles, left from the night before, Widow guessed.
The sun became sparse for several seconds as they drove through the thick of it until they breached the forest and came to rolling hills and the first signs of human life, which occurred in the form of a gas station. Two of them. One across from the other. Both major competitors. Both corporate oil and gas companies that Widow had heard of before and weren’t going away anytime soon. Both stations were old but well-kept. Both with equal prices per gallon down to the fractions of a penny marked high on signs.
Both stations had large pumps around the back, down empty service roads, accommodating for trucks, but major freight trucks didn’t come through here. Wagner had told him that the roads on the other side of town sprawled out in the wilderness. No vehicles would drive through there to Canada.
Then Widow saw a truck pulling out from one of the large pumping areas and exiting down the attached service road.
It hauled a long bed full of tied-down lumber, which was wet as if it had been sitting out all night in the rain or it had been covered by a tarp that couldn’t stand the hard winds and blew away.
Widow watched it for a while and then turned back to the town ahead.
Hellbent must’ve had a lumber mill. Made sense. It was probably a distribution center for local timber. Plenty of wood and trees out there.
Wagner had mentioned a lake, which probably meant a river system somewhere. Widow was unfamiliar with lumber mill life, but he knew that loggers used rivers like pipelines to transport felled trees downstream until they made it to the mill to be shredded and cut down to manageable lumber sizes. And then they were transported by truck or train to other internal destinations.
Wagner drove them over a hill and Widow saw a unique and quaint settlement, which was just as Wagner had described it, small and paltry enough to not be considered a town. But there it was. And it had a sign, which was posted up high on two wooden poles, painted white like an upside-down field goal post.
A massive, block sign, all wood, all etched letters, read: Welcome to Hellbent.
The sign was bent back, pushed back by decades of harsh wind, blowing in from the south. Widow could hear it even though the windows in the trooper’s Charger were all rolled up.
He could see it when he looked east to the closest trees. The leaves blew hard like green candle flames, dancing in the wind.
Widow took in the terrain. Mountains to the far south, trees everywhere. Rolling green hills. Mud puddles everywhere. Dampness everywhere. But the sky was blue and clear. More mountains to the north. And a small gothic settlement called Hellbent, right smack in the middle.
Wagner saw Widow checking it all out and said, “It’s like a Cole painting, right?”
“Who?”
“Thomas Cole. He lived around here. A famous painter who painted the White Mountains.”
Widow nodded, said, “Landscapes.”
“Yeah. Beautiful landscapes. He was a good man.”
“Hitler also painted landscapes,” Widow muttered .
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. Where you planning to drop me off?”
“I gotta check in with the local marshal.”
“Marshal? There’s a US Marshals office? Here?”
“No. It’s just the local lawman’s title.”
“What like in the Old West?”
“Sure. Some communities are too small for official police departments and deputies and the spending of taxpayer money to provide such services. That’s why I drive through here once a week.”
“Too small? There are two gas stations.”
“This county has nothing but this town. People have to drive long distances to work. Out here the main industry is timber. The mills are spread way out there.”
Widow nodded.
“How many marshals are there?”
“There’s only one. She has a volunteer deputy. And that’s it.”
Widow nodded.
They stopped at a four-way stop sign and turned onto the main street. Widow saw a pharmacy, a local market, a church, combined with a firehouse, and a taxidermist. It was weird, but so far nothing about Hellbent was normal.
“The place looks big enough to be considered an official town.”
“It has grown in the last twenty years. They review it every couple.”
“And? ”
“Like I mentioned. The state officials’ main concer
n is providing the taxpaying services here. New Hampshire’s budget is spread pretty thin these days.”
Widow nodded. State governments were more reckless than the federal government, which was surprising, and not.
On the other side of the street, everything was laid out a little more uneven. There were a few bars and empty businesses that used to be something. Most of them still had faded paint where signs used to be posted.
There was another side street with motels, all well-maintained. All small chains that Widow had heard of. All the parking lots were full.
“What’s with all the full motel lots?”
Wagner glanced over and then back at the road.
“The timber mills. Many of the workers are migrants. They end up staying in those motels like apartments. Which basically they are. The owners just never upgraded.”
“The got any empty rooms?”
“How would I know?”
They took a turn, and a street left and then a hard right and passed more shops. One was a barber, which Widow made a note of because he needed a haircut and a decent shave.
They came to a three-way stop sign, and Wagner made a complete, full stop as if he was setting an example for Widow. They were coming off the single street, so Wagner looked both ways. Widow followed suit, an involuntary habit.
No cars came from either direction.
Widow faced forward.
“You can let me out here.”
Wagner stayed quiet. He paused a little longer than necessary at the stop sign. He looked back at Widow in the rearview, and his lips started to move, but he said nothing and looked forward and drove off.
After a long, uncomfortable moment, Widow said, “Did you hear me?”
Wagner was quiet.
Widow spoke up. Not shouting or demanding, but in a firm voice. He put some extra bass in his voice, making him sound like a retired cop, which he was, basically.
“Did you hear me?”
“Oh, yeah, I heard ya.”
“So what’s the deal?”
“I’m glad to give you a lift into town, Mr. Widow. But I’m not a taxi. I’m afraid you’re going where I’m going. You can get out there.”
“And where the hell are you going?”
“Like I told you, I’m headed to meet with the town marshal. From there you can go wherever you’d like.”
Great, Widow thought. Once again, he was in the back of a police car, against his will, and headed straight for jail. Even though he wasn’t being arrested, not yet.
They drove on another dawdling mile, half straight, half turns, and they came to a laundromat. It was a sad, two-story building that looked like it had existed since the Revolutionary War.
They had thrown paint over the original mason brick several times over the last century.
What surprised Widow was that Wagner stopped the car right in front of the laundromat. He moved in his seat, adjusting his height and rechecked the rearview. Then he K-turned the Charger and pulled the car into a side street. He stopped directly behind an F-150 pickup and put the Charger into park.
“This is it.”
“This is what?”
“This is our stop.”
“A laundromat?”
“That’s just the first floor.”
Widow cocked his head and stared out at a set of metal stairs leading up to an external door on a second-floor platform. The stairs looked like an inner-city fire escape.
“So what? The Hellbent police station is on the top of a laundromat?”
“Times’re tight, Mr. Widow. The local marshal’s literally a one-woman show. And like I said about the state affairs, this woman ain’t even got a budget.”
A woman town marshal, Widow thought. That was something the Old West never had, not to his knowledge.
Wagner killed the engine and got out. He opened Widow’s door .
Widow stepped out and stood there as Wagner shut the door behind him.
“You headed any place in particular?”
“I could use a haircut.”
Widow waited, expecting Wagner to point him back in the direction of the barber shop they passed, with helpful instructions on where to turn, what street was a shortcut, but he never did.
Instead, right then a heavy door at the top of the stairs scraped opened, pulling inward, and an old-fashioned bell, rigged to the top corner of the door, dinged, an anemic sound, probably loud enough to alert whoever was present upstairs that a visitor had arrived. But it worked both ways, only weak on this side.
Widow watched as a woman climbed out onto the landing. She paused a brief second and then descended the stairs. She was dressed in a casual uniform with the settlement’s name written on a khaki button-down shirt, right there on her right breast pocket.
There was no official title for her. No Sheriff’s Department. No Police. No Marshal. The shirt was just a shirt.
On the left breast pocket was a nameplate, gold, not silver. It read her name, still no title. As Widow read it to himself, Wagner said it and added to it.
“Widow, this is Marshal Jo Bridges.”
Widow stayed still for a moment, but then he reached his hand out for her to shake .
Jo Bridges was a rough and tough-looking woman. Physically, she was a woman. No doubt about that. She had a combination build that was a cross between roller derby queen and a tennis player with some extra added layers from her age and occupation. She wore no makeup and sported a shaved head. Which didn’t look bad on her. She had that kind of helmet-shaped head that supported a bald look well.
Her shirt was perfectly ironed, but her jeans looked slept in, and maybe a day old since she first whipped them out of a closet or a dryer.
Widow guessed that like Wagner, Bridges had once been military, but much farther back in time than Wagner. She had signs of someone disciplined by military life who had been out for so long that civilian casualness had taken over.
She said, “Good to meet you, Widow.”
“Likewise.”
And then, out of the blue, she asked a question that told Widow exactly what this was.
It was a setup.
She asked, “So what’s your business here in Hellbent?”
Widow thought back to when Wagner first picked him up. He was on the phone. A quick call. Who was he talking to?
It had been Bridges. He had probably called ahead, told her about a guy looking lost, standing on the mouth of her jurisdiction.
That’s why Wagner hadn’t let him out at the three-way stop. He wasn’t just giving Widow a friendly lift into town. He was bringing him directly to the local marshal so she could get a good look at him, just like in the days of the Old West. He was the one stranger, walking into town. She was the town marshal who didn’t like trouble in her town. She was sizing him up to see if he was going to be trouble for her or not.
Widow said, “I got no business.”
“You got no business here?”
He looked onward and shrugged.
“I got no business anywhere.”
This answer seemed to annoy her for a moment.
“What’re you doing here? Before you say that Wagner brought you here, like some kind of smartass, remember, right now, I’m asking you nicely. I expect an actual answer.”
Wagner said, “Show some respect, Widow.”
Widow didn’t react to this. It seemed like Wagner was either interjecting to be included or he was playing bad cop.
Widow stayed quiet for a moment and made it look like he was lost in thought, but he wasn’t.
He could care less about whatever they were up to.
But eventually, he’d have to play along, if he wanted to avoid trouble.
So, he told her. He told them both. All the highlights. He told them that he used to be in the Navy, but wasn’t anymore. He mentioned that he used to be NCIS, to garner favor as one cop to another, but he left out the top-secret, classified status of his unit and his undercover work and his SEAL ops .
> He also told them that once he was pulled out of the service due to a death in the family, he decided to stay out, and had been wandering aimlessly for the past few years.
Both cops looked at each other and then at Widow.
Bridges asked, “You’re homeless?”
Widow sighed. He guessed that his previous service counted for nothing. Not anymore. Not to these two. Not in the back of beyond.
“Technically, yes. I’m homeless.”
They paused a beat.
Bridges looked like she was contemplating something. Probably what to make of Widow. She couldn’t arrest him, not for doing nothing wrong. And she couldn’t kick him out of town. Although, she could, just not legally.
Impasse.
Wagner looked like he was merely waiting for her instructions.
She was the lower rank in terms of cops and state law enforcement agencies, but she was the ranking officer in terms of experience.
She had fifteen-plus years on Wagner.
Bridges took a step back, and Wagner followed. They turned their backs to Widow and whispered to each other for a long minute.
Widow asked, “What the hell is this?”
They turned and stepped back.
Bridges said, “In the last few days, we’ve had some new arrivals.”
“New arrivals?”
“Outsiders. That’s all. New people. ”
“And that’s got something to do with me?”
“Five hundred twenty people live in this town, Widow. We’ve got nothing to see. No tourist business to speak of. Except during hunting season, which legally doesn’t start here for another thirty days. And every year we get the same people show up here to hunt. Without fail. The same guys come. They stay. They hunt. They leave.”
“And?”
“And in the last three days, I’ve seen about a dozen new faces that I ain’t never seen before.”
“So? Word gets around. You got a lot of wilderness out here. And quiet. And no one lives here. Don’t hunters like that?”
“The new faces aren’t hunters.”
Wagner said, “They look like bikers.”
“Bikers?”
