“Whoever you are, you need to get your ass back home or crawl back under whatever rock you came from,” Pilate called through an opening in the shutters. “You’re dangerously close to committing a crime.”
“You gonna send him out or what?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
The headlights of a massive pickup turned on, flooding the jail with light that crept through cracks in the shutters. The engine roared to life, and the truck sped away.
“Interesting,” Simon said. “You need to piss? ‘Cause I sure as hell do.”
“Simon, you’re not real. You can’t even piss, except to piss me off.”
“Were you listening just now, John?”
“John?” Taters said, his face quizzical.
“Never mind. It seems we have a bit of a problem.”
“Yeah, I think you pegged that right.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Pilate sipped coffee from a chipped mug, watching Parker Nemec pace in his tiny cell.
“Why are we staying here? Don’t you think we should make a break for it?”
Pilate leaned back in the chair, balancing on two legs. “Nope. We set foot outside this jail, and we’re due to get shot. Even if we get past them, they’ll ambush before we hit the edge of town.”
“Aren’t you worried about your wife and kids?”
“Nope. As soon as we left my house, I knew we were being followed. I told Kate to tear outta town as soon as the coast was clear. She’s on her way to Goss City, to a secure location, as they say—kinda like your wife when she ran off to Norfolk.”
Nemec smiled. “Well done, Constable. But what do we do now? Just wait here till they burn the place down?”
“I doubt they’ll do that, considering that you’re in here, and you’re apparently the only one who knows the secret to Curly’s gold.”
“Blood. Blood’s gold,” Nemec said.
“Blood’s gold doesn’t have Jack Palance,” Taters said from behind the door of the tiny bathroom, his voice echoing off the walls.
“Good point,” Pilate said. “So, Parker…”
“What?”
“Where’s the gold? It’s not under Cusack’s, and I’m not sure he even knows it exists.”
“Well, he was leaned on pretty hard by Thurman, so he brought in some Irish muscle, some guy called Jackie the Crow.”
“The Crow? That’s new. Okay, but where’s the gold?”
Nemec smiled. “That’s the worst part about all this, John.”
“What?”
“I have no idea. I can’t find it.”
“What do you mean, you can’t find it?” Taters asked in disbelief, waving his hands in the air to dry them after walking out of the restroom. “Surely it’s in the county budget to buy a new roll of paper towels.”
“And air freshener, hopefully,” Pilate replied, then turned back to Nemec. “Well?”
“Before all the shit went down, Krall was getting pretty tight over at the Brown Betty. I played poker there with Krall, Robie, and Harley Cordwainer. Krall was pretty pleased with himself, said Perry Mostek was sitting on a goldmine and didn’t even know it,” Nemec said. “Coffee?”
Pilate poured him a cup and handed it through the bars.
“Thanks. Anyway, he dropped a few vague hints and toddled off. Right after Krall and Ollie ended up dead, and before Perry Mostek went nuts and shot Sheriff Welliver and skipped town, if he really did…” He put the coffee down and scrubbed at his scalp with his good hand in a nervous gesture. “I suspect he ended up dead. Anyway, before Thurman turned up, I managed to sneak in to what’s now the Cusack place. Incidentally, it was built on the same spot as the Al Blood blacksmith shop back in the day.” Nemec sipped the coffee and made a face. “Ick! I’ve tasted piss better than this.”
“You’ve tasted piss?” Taters said.
“Well, no, but anyway, I found the trapdoor and went down there. Crept through that horror-movie tunnel to the chamber under Mostek’s place and found an old box full of gold coins. It was like a pirate treasure.”
“I can imagine,” Pilate said.
“I hoisted it all back up through what’s now Cusack’s place and made tracks.”
“Then what?”
“One night, I buried it in a field behind the old Bartley place. It was a bitch to dig deep enough in that frozen soil, but I did it. Before I could figure out my next move, though, we got socked in by that blizzard, you killed Ollie, Krall got what was coming to him, and then I couldn’t fucking find where I buried the gold once it all thawed out.”
Taters chortled. “You’re an idiot. You know that? And to think, people trust you with their life savings. I wouldn’t deposit a rolla pennies in that damn bank of yours. You’d probably bury it in a rabbit hole and forget where you put it.”
“Screw you, mister,” Nemec said.
“You’re lying. You know exactly where it is, but you don’t want to give it up,” Pilate said.
“Yeah, sure. I’m so cocksure of myself that I took an axe blade to the back to keep my stubborn secret.” Nemec guffawed. “You’re the idiot if you think I didn’t tell them there and then that I would give up the gold, but…well…”
“You really couldn’t find where you buried it?” Pilate said.
“This is too much,” Taters said.
“They can’t kill me until they have the gold or are positive that I’m lying and they can sweat it out of me.”
“So somewhere in the fields behind the Bartley place, there’s a shit-ton of gold?” Pilate said.
“Unless somebody else already found it,” Taters said.
Pilate shrugged at Taters. “What side of the place did you bury it? East or west?”
“East, facing town. I do remember that.”
“Within view of at least five or six nearby houses,” Pilate muttered. “Over by Mrs. Drum’s turd-strewn lawn.”
A loud banging at the front door interrupted Pilate.
“Stay with him, T.”
“You got it,” Taters said, gesturing for Nemec to get on the floor.
Pilate carefully edged up the hall to the outer office. Crouching behind his desk, gun drawn, he called out, “Who is it?”
“It’s me, Sheriff. Riley, Riley Pierson.”
“What are you doing here, Nebraska?”
“I need to talk to you about Abbey. I saw your car out front and—”
Pilate sprang up, peered out the shutters, and opened the door. He grabbed Riley by the collar and jerked him inside.
“Hey!”
“Not safe,” Pilate said, quickly locking the door. “Anybody else out there?”
“I dunno. I didn’t see anybody,” Riley said. “What’s up?”
“Well, we have a situation here,” Pilate said. “I hate to tell you this, but you’re stuck here now. I can’t let you back out until help arrives.”
“What the heck are you talking about?”
“Kid, can you shoot?” Taters asked from the back room.
“Yeah. I hunt.”
“Good. Consider yourself a deputy constable,” Pilate said. “My friend Taters back there has a Winchester and a pistol. Pick your favorite, whatever you handle best, and we’ll talk.”
“So we got a .38, a semiautomatic pistol, a Winchester ’92 rifle, and the varmint gun loaded with birdshot,” Pilate said. “Looks like we have about fifty rounds or so apiece.”
“Could be worse,” Taters said.
“Oh? How?”
“We only need to hole up in here till reinforcements arrive. Didn’t Ryder say they’ll be here in three or four hours?”
Pilate nodded.
“Well, it’s already been an hour, so not much longer.”
“True.”
Nemec sat up from his recumbent position on the squeaky cot. “Could you let me out and give me a gun?”
“No.”
“That just stinks, Sheriff.”
“Who is it that wants Mr. Nemec?
” Riley asked, rubbing his cheek as he double-checked the lock on the reinforced steel back door of the jail.
“Hilmer Thurman.”
“The guy who owns the Brown Betty?”
“The very one.”
“Oh.”
“C’mon, Nebraska. You handled that old door so well that I want you to help me barricade the front door. The shutters and wooden door can only take so much. We’ll use my desk.”
They started to push the heavy oak desk toward the door when the pop-pop-pop of gunshots pierced the thick air of the jail.
“Well, we’re in the thick of it now, boys,” Taters hollered. “Anchors away!”
“Everybody stay low!” Pilate shouted, crawling behind the desk with Riley.
More shots tore into the front door and windows of the jail, raining glass and splinters from the shutters into the office.
“Holy shit!” Riley yelled. “Are they trying to kill us?”
“Stay calm,” Pilate said. “They’re just trying to rattle us.”
“Well, it’s working.”
A louder series of bangs rang out as what seemed like a hundred shotgun blasts tore bigger hunks out of the door, windows, and the shutters behind them.
“Okay, John, I don’t think that’s rattling. Ready or not, here they come,” Simon said.
Pilate looked at Riley. “Looks like we’re not gonna be able to just wait them out. We have to fight back.”
Riley nodded, his hands shaking visibly as he cradled the Winchester ’92.
“When I count to three, hop up and fire two shots through the hole in the window. You got it?”
“Okay,” Riley said, cocking the rifle.
“Don’t worry about aiming. We’ve just gotta give them something to think about, make a little noise. Okay. One, two, three!”
Pilate and Riley rose up and fired two shots each through the hole in the ravaged window and shutters, their rounds flying off into the night. The smell of spent cartridges hung in the air, coupled with a thick layer of smoke.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” Riley said. “I just…well, I just wish I coulda seen Abbey one more time.”
“Don’t talk like that, Riley. We’re gonna get outta here just fine.”
“No, that’s not what I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
“She wouldn’t see me at the hospital,” he said.
“Well, you can see her tomorrow,” Pilate said.
“Promise?” Riley’s hands shook again.
Taters crawled up between them. “How we doing?”
“Well, they’re turning the front of the building to Swiss cheese, but I think we put a scare in ‘em with my trusty .38 and Nebraska’s ’92.”
“I bet you’re right,” Taters said, “but we’ve got another issue to contend with.”
“What?”
“Somebody’s pounding on the back door.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The ringing of the telephone pierced the chaos; somehow, it had survived the onslaught and was still sitting in its place on the heavy desk.
Pilate reached for it. “That all you got?” he said, amping up the bravado.
“Open the goddamn door,” a man’s voice ordered.
“Um…no. I figured our response to your shotguns was a good enough—”
“Pilate, you dumbass, it’s me, Ryder. I’m at the back door. I dropped one of those bastards to get back here, but if you don’t hurry and let me in by the hair of my damn chinny-chin-chin, they’re gonna catch on. Open the fucking door! That’s an order, Constable!”
“Taters, get back there. It’s Ryder!”
Taters crawfished back to the door and swiftly opened it to let Ryder in, then hurriedly locked the door again.
While he was usually laconic, with not a hair out of place, Ryder looked distinctly ruffled: his cowboy hat was slightly askew.
Pilate told Riley to watch the door. “Shoot at anything that tries to come in,” he said, then crawled back to the cell area. “Well, this is certainly one fucked-up state of affairs,” Pilate said, trying hard to smile. “Damn fine way to earn a grand a month.”
“Well, sometimes you get the bear, sometimes the bear gets you,” Ryder said, checking the chambers of his Colt New Frontier pistol. “What do we have here?”
“Well, Mr. Nemec, here, is in protective custody, though he’s confessed to being an accessory to a whole lotta bullshit.”
“Hey! I have immunity!” Nemec said, hands on the bars.
“Whatever,” Pilate said, keeping his eyes on Ryder. “Taters and Riley Pierson are deputies.”
“A civilian boat jockey and a kid?” Ryder asked, looking cockeyed at Pilate. “That’s all you got?”
“Yup. The kid showed up before things got hairy. Couldn’t risk sending him out, so Nebraska stays,” Pilate said.
“Good thinking,” Ryder said.
“My wife—”
Ryder shook his head. “Sorry, pal, but Kate and the kids couldn’t get out. I got a call from dispatch on the way over. She tried to call here, but couldn’t get through. She’s gone underground.”
“Damn it! I have to go get her.”
“You have no idea where she is, and we can’t make a move without those trigger-happy fools seeing it,” Ryder said. “The best thing you can do for yourself and your missus is to take care of business here. I doubt very seriously that Thurman would send any of his goons after her, especially since he’s spread pretty thin, trying to draw our people away from town.”
“Let’s pray you’re right. When do we get reinforcements?”
Ryder smiled. “Well, for the time being, you’re lookin’ at all the reinforcements you’re gonna get.”
“Well, ain’t that just grand?” Taters said. “No offense, but we were hopin’ for a SWAT team or something.”
“None taken. Me, too, but that liquor store hostage sitch drew the law over to that side of the county. I put a call in to Lew Hawkins, next county over, to see if he could send some fellas this way,” Ryder said. “He said he will as soon as they secure some problem over at the airport. Bob Hayes called him and said somebody blew up a Cessna and was taking shots at the tower.”
“Shit. They really planned this out,” Pilate said.
“Yeah, well, our Mr. Thurman is nothing if not thorough,” Ryder said. “Damn. I was afraid of this once I got in. Ready for another kick in the pants?” he asked, holding up his cell phone.
“What?” Pilate patted his pockets for his phone and checked it. “No service.”
“They clipped the wires at the tower at Monticello Cemetery, I suspect. That fence ain’t all that high,” Ryder said.
“Crap. Well, that means his folks can’t talk to each other either, and our landline still works.”
“Only ‘cause they want it to. You can bet they’re monitoring it and will cut it off if we try to call for help.”
“I’m gonna die, in a gol-damn antique jail cell,” Nemec whispered, falling heavily back on his bunk.
“Shut up,” Pilate snapped. “Well, what do we do?” he asked, turning back to Ryder.
Ryder holstered his Colt. “We batten down the hatches. ‘Bout all we can do at the moment.”
“Hold ‘em off till the reinforcements get here or sunrise, whichever comes first?” Taters asked.
Ryder nodded, adjusting his hat. “Gimme a rundown on weapons and ammo.”
Pilate ran down the list of weaponry and ammo at their disposal.
“Goody. Well, I have Mabel here,” he said, patting his Colt, “and about thirty rounds left. I also have this peashooter I took off the guy I clocked out back.” He proudly displayed the pilfered .38.
“Nice,” Pilate said.
“Yeah. It’s got eight rounds, but you have extra here,” he said. “Oh yeah, and I also have a surprise in my boot, should we—”
“Mr. Pilate, you’d better get up here!” Riley called.
“C’mon, Commish,” Pilate
said. “Taters, hang back.”
“Yeah, yeah. Babysit the prisoner. Jeez, I feel like Walter Brennan. That’s the Taters Malley theory on that.”
Pilate nodded at him.
Taters gave him a sign to hang back as Ryder went ahead. “Dude, I know this Ryder used to be in law enforcement and all, but is he as good as he used to be?” he whispered.
“I suspect pretty close,” Pilate said, talking low, “though I’d hate to bet my life on the difference.”
“Just be careful,” Taters said.
“Always.”
“A lie if I ever heard one.”
Pilate nodded and smiled, then joined Riley and Ryder behind the desk. “What’s up?” he asked.
“I saw headlights coming and going,” Riley said. “Can’t tell if there are more guys or if some of the others just left.”
“I’d put money on the former,” Ryder said. “Did you get a look at anybody before?”
“Nope, but by the sound of his voice, I’m pretty sure Hilmer’s fat-ass toady, Tom, was out there.”
“Yeah, Hils ain’t gonna be out there in person,” Ryder said. “He ain’t got the balls for it, just lives vicariously through his brainless sheep. Never gets his hands dirty. That’s why we’ve never been able to lay a glove on him.”
“Well, surely we can trace something back to him after this.”
“Assuming we survive, we’re gonna try to do that very thing, Constable, but we gotta get out alive first.”
“Are we gonna make it?” Riley asked.
“No,” Simon intoned in Pilate’s skull.
“Yes, of course,” Pilate contradicted, nudging Ryder.
“Shit, boy, I ain’t gonna sugarcoat it. We may not, but even if we don’t, I plan to go out like a man, on my feet.”
“I don’t want to die,” Riley said. “I still have to make things right with Abbey.”
“Then I’d say you need to avoid dying, boy,” Ryder said, patting him on the shoulder.
“I have a name.” Riley said.
Ryder nodded. “Sorry, Nebraska.”
“Tell me again why the hell we still live here,” Simon drawled.
“Gold? The lost Alvin Blood mother lode?” Ryder cackled, sitting with his boots up on the rickety card table by the jail cell.
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