Masters of Mayhem

by Franklin Horton

  "So you disappear in a cloud of smoke just like a genie," Wayne said. "That what you are? A damn genie?"

  "I'm here on business. Like I told your boy Furillo, I found Johnny Jacks and his son shot up. They’re both severely injured. Johnny's wife is dead and his daughter-in-law is missing. I'd like to know what happened. I'm here because, I have to admit, I wondered if you might've decided you needed a few more horses than you could pay for."

  "You don't know me! You don't know my people! You've got no reason to think that we would do something like that." Wayne moved out from the doorway of the building and into the parking lot. He wasn't close enough to present a threat to Conor but his outrage emboldened him.

  "On the contrary, I’ve got a good reason to be here asking you this question. I saw you there trading with the man. You’re strangers to the area. You are the likely suspects. You still haven't answered my question, either. Did you go back to Johnny Jacks’ house?"

  "No dammit! I liked the old man. I wouldn’t have done anything to hurt him or his family. They seemed like decent folks. Like grandparents or something.”

  Conor considered the man’s statement for a long moment before responding. "I believe you, Wayne. You have to understand my suspicion, right?"

  In the green glow of his goggles, Conor could see Wayne shrug and throw his hands up. "I guess. Fucking strangers. Always get the blame for whatever happens in a town. Like the gypsies or the carnies."

  Conor took a few steps away from the safety of the truck. "You ever decide if you folks are staying or moving on?"

  "Harkening back to our earlier conversation at Johnny's house, is this where the sheriff tries to run us out of town? Is this where you tell us that we’re not welcome here?"

  "Not at all. I have my hands full right now. But if you stay, I'd rather work with you than against you."

  Wayne gave a dismissive laugh. "If this is where we get all touchy-feely, hug, and all that bullshit, I'll throw my cards on the table. We’ve got nothing to hide here. Honestly, I'd rather my group lay in some firewood and stay put for the winter."

  Conor walked toward Wayne. He lowered his gun and extended a hand, walking into the circle of light where he was clearly visible to the other man. "Then let's call a truce. Are you willing to shake hands on it?"

  "I’m afraid to say no. You’re the one with the guns," Wayne said. “But, yeah, I'll accept your truce."

  The two men shook hands.

  "I'm sorry about rousting you out of bed," Conor said. "As you can see, I'm loyal to those I call a friend. I need to find out what happened to Johnny's daughter-in-law. If she's alive, I'm taking her back to her family. Either way, the men who took her are all going to die a shitty death. I’ll see to that."

  "If you need more men we might be able to help you. The old man was good to us and I’d be glad to return the favor."

  "Then if you don't mind, I’ll just retrieve my explosives and be on my way. I’ve places to go and men to kill."

  Wayne raised both hands. “Don’t let me hold you back.”

  18

  Before they approached Johnny Jacks’ house, Conor pulled a radio from a pouch and hailed the folks inside. Seconds later Shannon responded.

  “You’re clear to approach. I promise not to open fire on you.”

  Barb wondered if that was a sincere promise or some weak attempt at a joke.

  Conor was dying to ask after Johnny and Jason but he didn't want to have that discussion on the radio. To do so would broadcast to anyone listening that the men were injured and their property vulnerable. It may also invite some bunch of miscreants to come and attempt to rob Conor and his group.

  The pair did not want to leave their horses where they couldn’t see them but the animals had a long night. They needed shelter and a little comfort, just the same as Barb and Conor did. They rode them to the barn and put them in clean stalls, took the tack from them, and found a place for it in the barn.

  The slipped quilted turnouts over the horses to keep them warm while they cooled down from their exertion. Barb climbed up into the loft and was able to scrape together a couple of buckets of hay that had come loose from bales over the years. Conor filled two water buckets from the gravity-fed trough to the side of the barn and hung those in the stalls. Only when their horses were settled in for the night did the pair walk across the cold, dark yard to Johnny’s house.

  "I'm getting ready to knock on the door," Conor said into the radio. He absolutely did not want to startle an armed young woman. She could have been rock solid and cool under fire but he didn’t have enough experience with her to know that for certain.

  When he knocked, Shannon was waiting just the other side of the door and opened it, ushering the pair inside. They banged their way in, gear rattling from hands, shoulders, and necks. Shannon helped relieve them of some of it and placed it along the wall, out of the path of traffic.

  "How are the patients?" Conor asked.

  "The old man hasn't regained consciousness but Dad thinks he has the bleeding under control. He stitched him up and has a tube draining his wounds, and put him on fluids and antibiotics. Now it’s just a matter of watching and waiting. "

  "What about Jason?"

  "Dad’s pretty certain he has a concussion. He's been unconscious most of the time but he woke up a little when he was throwing up. He was confused and started fighting because he didn't know who we were. We convinced him we were here to help him but he keeps trying to get out of here. He keeps saying “Hell Creek” or something like that. It’s hard to understand him because his mouth is so messed up. Dad had to give him some pain medication. He’s awake now but he’s staring at the wall in a daze. The only way Dad got him to settle down was to tell him you’d be back soon.”

  Conor nodded, scratching his chin. “I need to see him.”

  "Where’s Hell Creek?" Barb asked.

  "It's where the church is that I went to with Johnny and Jason. It's where I went to make a recruiting effort."

  "You think that’s where they took the girl?" Barb asked

  "I have no idea," Conor said. "There’s more to Hell Creek than just the church. All we know at this point is who doesn't have her."

  "That's if you choose to believe those people at the fire hall,” Barb said. “Maybe we should have demanded to look around inside."

  "I believed him."

  Barb yawned. “I’m too tired to argue about it.”

  Conor put a hand on her shoulder. “Why don’t you find a place to crash? I have a feeling we’ll be back on the road in the morning. You’ll need all the rest you can get."

  "What about you?"

  "Don't worry about me. I’m going to try to talk to Jason a second and then I'm going to find a place to nod off."

  Barb nodded, staggering off with her gear to find an empty room.

  “I can help you get settled,” Shannon said, picking Barb’s pack up from the floor.

  Barb took it back from her. She didn’t do it viciously but with enough attitude to let Shannon know her efforts were not required.

  Shannon released it and stepped back. “Sorry,” she replied, her voice holding more sarcasm than apology.

  Barb wandered off through the house, using a flashlight to navigate.

  “Why doesn’t she like me?” Shannon asked. “Are we intruding?”

  “No, you’re not intruding,” Conor replied. “And I’m not certain that Barb even dislikes you. She just has a certain way about her. It takes some getting used to.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Trust me. I’m her dad and she treats me the same way most of the time.” Conor patted Shannon on the shoulder and headed back to Johnny’s bedroom.

  The room was lit by a battery-powered lantern. Conor was glad to see that Shannon had followed through on covering the windows to prevent any light from escaping and drawing attention. Doc Marty wore a headlamp to provide him with task lighting. He looked as tired as Conor felt.

  “I hope yo
u’re the relief shift,” Doc Marty commented when he saw Conor.

  Before Conor could reply, Jason swung his head from the wall and focused intently on the new arrival. Though the dried blood had been cleaned from his face, the young man looked even worse than he had in the moments after they’d found him. The swelling and bruising were in full bloom. In his fury, he looked like the battered but defiant loser of a mixed martial arts championship bout. Even through the pain meds, there was a determined fire in those eyes.

  Conor took a seat on the edge of Jason’s mattress. The young man tried sitting up but struggled. Conor noticed bandaged fingers and a greasy film on the young man’s face, likely some type of topical medication. Several dark, spidery patches on Jason’s face were actually lines of stitches.

  “I think there’s a broken rib or two,” Doc Marty said, coming to Jason’s side and putting a hand on his shoulder. “That’s why he’s having trouble sitting up.”

  “Sam?” It was a desperate mumble from Jason, a plea.

  Conor hadn’t known her name until that moment. “You stay down, lad,” Conor said. “We’ve been out looking for your wife. For Sam.”

  Jason shot Conor a hopeful glance. Conor responded with a shake of his head.

  “She was taken, right?” Conor asked. “Did you see her? Was she injured or shot?”

  Jason shook his head vigorously, then winced at the movement, easing a hand up to touch his damaged face.

  “We went to find those men who bought your horses,” Conor said. “I wanted to make sure they weren’t the ones who’d done this. I didn’t know who it might have been. With you both unconscious we had nothing to go on.”

  Frustration flared on Jason’s face. “Hell. Creek,” he annunciated carefully and with much pain.

  “Where we went to the church? The soup kitchen?”

  Jason nodded slowly.

  “You got a look at them? You recognized them?”

  Another nod.

  “Was it…the minister? The folks from the church? Did they take Sam?”

  “Nooo,” Jason groaned, obviously impatient and aggravated at his inability to communicate effectively.

  “Who?”

  Jason hesitated. Conor realized the young man was trying to figure out a way to explain it using the least words possible because of the pain. Conor waited patiently. Finally, Jason took a deep breath.

  “Big. Bowl. People.”

  Awareness hit Conor like a stick to the head. His eyes flew to Jason’s. “Those assholes in the soup line? The ones with the big bowls?”

  Jason gave a pained nod.

  “Dammit!” Conor shot to his feet. “That’s what happens when you leave folks like that alive. I wanted to kill them then but I was trying to win points with the minister. Those guys either followed us back or figured out where you lived.”

  Jason nodded.

  Conor smacked his palm on his forehead. “We wasted the entire fucking night chasing down the wrong bastards.”

  “You didn’t know,” Doc Marty said. “It sounds like you made the reasonable assumption based on the information you had at the time. You can try again tomorrow.”

  “Going. Now,” Jason hissed, trying again to sit up in the bed.

  Conor put a firm hand on his shoulder. “I understand how you feel. I was the same way when my daughter was missing but do you think you’re up for hours in a saddle? You think you’re up for a fight or do you think you might hold me back from doing things the way they need done?”

  The look in Jason’s eyes was defiant. He was ready in spirit, but only in spirit. Tears poured and his mouth curled into a tortured, jagged sob.

  “We will get her back,” Conor assured him. “I’m leaving right now.”

  “You just got here,” Doc Marty said. “Don’t you think you need a break? A few hours of sleep at least? You’re not optimal.”

  Conor spun on Doc. “How do I sleep? Tell me that. How do I sleep knowing that I failed this girl? This family?”

  “You didn’t fail them,” Doc Marty said. “We already went down this road. You acted on the intelligence you had, which is all of any of us can do.”

  “Now I’m acting on the latest intelligence,” Conor said. He jabbed a finger toward the bed. “Make sure he doesn’t get out of that bed and try to follow me. If he moves, sedate him.”

  Conor wasn’t even sure Doc Marty had the drugs for that but he figured Jason didn’t know either and might take the threat seriously. The injured man eased back in the bed but looked far from settled.

  Doc Marty followed Conor back to the kitchen. Shannon was sitting at the table wearily drinking a cup of hot herbal tea.

  “Can you keep an eye on Jason?” Doc Marty asked his daughter. “I’m afraid he might try to get out of bed. Yell if he does.”

  Shannon stood and complied with a tired smile.

  “She seems like a good girl,” Conor said. “She doesn’t complain and she’s not afraid of diving right in. She’ll do fine with whatever the world throws at her.”

  “She is a good girl,” Doc Marty replied. “She’s a better kid than I ever deserved. Are you taking Barb?”

  “She’s probably asleep,” Conor said. “I’m hoping to leave her be. She needs her rest.”

  “You need your rest,” Doc countered. “Hell, we all need some rest.”

  Conor dug a foil packet from a pouch on his plate carrier. He held it up to Doc.

  “What’s that? Dextroamphetamine?”

  “Modafinil.”

  “I hate running on chemicals,” Doc Marty said, shaking his head. “It’s a nasty fucking feeling.”

  “I hate letting people die.”

  “Are you going somewhere without me?”

  Conor and Doc Marty spun at the voice to find Barb standing in the door, her gear still on, a pissed look on her face.

  “You need your rest,” Conor said.

  “I think you and the doc already chewed that fat, as the expression goes. I’m not staying behind.” Her tone made it clear that there would be no arguing.

  “I’m not giving you any speed,” Conor said. “If you go it’s because you have enough juice left for it.”

  Barb pushed by Conor and slung open the back door. “If you need pills to go on the op, maybe your old ass should stay home and leave it to me. There’s a nice recliner in the den there. But if you’re going, let’s go now.” She slipped out the door, the gear on her shoulders banging off both door frames as she struggled through the opening.

  Doc Marty chuckled softly.

  “What?” Conor asked.

  “I thought your daughter was kind of a firecracker. She’s more like a claymore.”

  “Yep. It’s a constant struggle to make sure I have the dangerous side pointed toward the enemy. Sometimes it spins around the wrong way and there’s collateral damage.” Conor tore open the foil pack and took the Modafinil, tossing the empty pack onto the kitchen table. He shouldered his gear and tore off after his daughter.

  19

  The only place Conor knew to start was the church. Their horses had not even had time to cool off, only to drink and eat a little, so they didn’t push them too hard. While both Conor and Barb had the same headstrong nature and would have preferred to gallop off into the night as they had earlier, they needed to save their horses. They might need an extra burst of speed or energy later and they didn’t want their horses so spent they couldn’t perform.

  They’d even discussed riding the two horses Doc Marty and Shannon had ridden, but those weren’t their horses. Even though the Maguires were fairly new to riding, they’d built a relationship with this pair of animals and felt rider and horse were learning each other. On a mission as critical as this one, they didn’t want to risk a new horse they knew little about.

  By the time the riders reached the mouth of Hell Creek, the sky was lightening enough that they could stow their night vision. They blinked at the hazy morning, so different outside of the green glow of the goggles. It was
foggy, the mist of the river bottom trapped in the constricted valley and rising until it rolled over the summits like an overfilled bucket. Had this been summer, the birds would have already started in on their morning songs as they collected breakfast. This late in the year, there were fewer around. Somewhere, a solitary crow cawed. Herons stalked the shallows of the creek with a movement slow as time itself.

  Before they even reached the church, the pair smelled the hearty aroma of soup mixed with the smell of river and silty banks. It was a curious, provocative smell that reminded both riders they hadn’t eaten in some time.

  “They’re cooking already?” Barb asked. “Tad early for soup, if you ask me.”

  “They said it was a never-ending pot of soup. Maybe it literally stays on the fire all the time.”

  Barb curled her lip. “That’s kind of nasty. If that’s really the case, they’re probably cooking a never-ending stew of bugs, dust, and bacteria.”

  “They’re saving lives.”

  Though the heavy shod feet of the horses made a clatter in the quietness of the foggy morning, Conor made no effort to mute their progress by moving off into the grass. If there were people at the church, perhaps a guard with occasional soup-stirring duties, Conor did not want to startle him. Scared people made bad decisions. When they came within sight of the church, they found a group of folks standing around a fire. A different group, smaller, was standing closer to the road with a motley assortment of firearms leveled at the riders. The sound of approaching horses had definitely caught their attention.

  “Do we kill them?” Barb whispered. “I take the left half, you take the right. We work our way toward the middle.”

  With a half-dozen weapons trained on them from a distance of less than fifty feet, Conor could only shoot his daughter a stern look. Was she that confident in her skills or did it completely piss her off to be on this end of a gun barrel?