No Direction Home (Book 2): Eastwood

by Mike Sheridan

  He wiped his brow. It was done. The chicken was ready for cooking. That evening he would stuff it full of garlic and thyme, and roast it in the oven, just like he’d helped his mother do dozens of times before. Next, he would butcher a rabbit. Billy closed his eyes and tried to imagine that. He shuddered. It would be a lot harder than killing a bird.

  He’d just finished washing his hands when he heard the sound of an engine coming down the driveway. Instantly, he froze. Could that be the intruders from the other day returning?

  He grabbed the Remington shotgun he’d left by the shed door and slipped out quietly, making his way back through the garden. When he reached the back of the house, he hid behind a tree and peeked around it.

  Shading his eyes, he spotted a figure standing by the kitchen window. From this distance, it was too far for him to see properly. He stepped away, quietly skirting around the bramble hedge that bordered the garden, then darted along the sidewall toward the front of the house. When he reached it, he saw an old gray station wagon parked outside. This was a different set of intruders.

  He walked over to the entrance to see the front door wide open, its frame torn once more at the latch. A surge of anger ran through him to think that he had been broken into yet again.

  He stepped in through the doorway and crept down the hall, his shotgun leveled at his shoulder. When he reached the end, he took a deep breath, pushed the kitchen door open with the muzzle of the Remington and burst in.

  “Freeze!” he shouted at a figure wearing dungarees and work boots. He knelt on his haunches with his head in one of the kitchen cabinets.

  The figure jerked its head out and stared at him in alarm. To his surprise, Bill saw that it was an old lady with gray hair tied in a bun. She appeared even older than his granny, Esther, who used to visit the farm from West Virginia twice a year.

  “Oh my Lord!” she gasped, staring at the shotgun leveled at her head. “Easy with that, child, lest it goes off.” Her eyes flicked over to where a similar weapon rested against one of the worktops. “See, I got a gun just like that. They can go off by accident real easy.”

  Billy jacked a shell into the Remington’s chamber, holding the barrel steady. “If this gun goes off, it won’t be by accident,” he said fiercely. “That’s all a thief like you deserves.”

  The old lady shook her head indignantly. “Hey, I’m no thief! We were passing by and saw the sign for Willow Spring Organics. Thought there might be some farm animals we could rescue. We had no idea someone was living here.”

  Billy stared at her sharply. “We? Who is we?”

  “‘We’ is me and Marcie,” another female voice uttered softly behind him. Billy spun around to find himself facing a pretty black girl in her late teens standing by the back door. She wore a leather jacket, sneakers, and jeans. In her outstretched hand, a pistol was pointed at his chest.

  “Easy, child,” the older woman said behind him. “Put the gun down. That way no one gets hurt.”

  Billy stared at the girl. Their eyes locked. “Who, me?” both said simultaneously after a moment’s hesitation.

  The old lady chuckled. “Well now you two have me confused. Tell you what, how about you both put them down?”

  There was something about the two women that Billy trusted. Neither talked like the intruders that had come before. “I’ll put mine away, if you do the same,” he said.

  The girl nodded.

  Billy lowered his shotgun and rested the butt on the floor. Immediately, the girl dropped her pistol and shoved it inside her jacket pocket. She stepped into the kitchen and the two looked at each other awkwardly.

  “I’m Simone, by the way,” the girl said.

  “I’m Billy.”

  Simone pointed over to the older woman. “That’s my friend Marcie. Sorry, we didn’t realize anyone was living here.”

  “It’s okay. So long as you help me fix the door. That’s the second time it’s been broken down.”

  Simone smiled apologetically. “Of course.” She looked around. “Are you here on your own?”

  Billy nodded.

  “Your parents?”

  “They’re both dead.”

  “Lord, that must have been hard on you, child, left all on your own like this,” the old lady said. Though her voice crackled harshly, there was real concern in it.

  Without warning, Billy felt his defenses crumble. He’d lost count of how many days he’d been on his own. During that time, he’d dragged his parents into a field and set them alight, he’d looked after the farm and stayed out of the clutches of intruders. Worst of all, the thing he hid from himself in order to survive, was the ice-cold loneliness that buried itself deeper into his heart each day. It all chose that moment to catch up with him.

  “Real hard,” he croaked. “I was so…lonely.” Without being able to help himself, his chest heaved, and his eyes flooded with tears.

  Simone came over to him. She put her arms around him and held him close to her. “It’s all right, Billy. You’re with friends now.”

  Marcie walked over to both of them and put an arm over each of their shoulders. “That’s right. You got me and Simone now. You need never be lonely again.”

  Billy sniffled, then stepped back and composed himself, embarrassed that he’d broken down like that. “You want I show you the farm?” he asked. “There’s fifteen acres of land here. We got our own spring too.”

  “Wow, that’s a lot of land,” Simone said. “Did your parents work it by themselves?”

  Billy nodded. “Some of it’s just forest, though. And I helped too. Most days.”

  “You got any farm animals here?” Marcie asked.

  “Yes, there’s chickens, rabbits, and ducks. Also a pig and two goats. I can manage them easily. It’s the gardening that’s hard.”

  Marcie exchanged glances with Simone before speaking again. “Billy, remember what we just said about you never needing to be alone again?”

  Billy nodded.

  “How do you feel about me and Simone coming to stay here and helping you with the work? See if we don’t all get along?”

  “I-I’d like that,” Billy said, blinking hard.

  “One thing, though. We have two friends. There’s Fred, a man my age who’s wheelchair bound, and his friend Eric, who is blind. If we can convince them to come, could they stay here too?”

  “That fine. It doesn’t sound like they could manage on their own anyway.”

  Marcie chuckled. “They do better than you might think. I have to warn you, though, Fred’s a cranky old goat. We may have to leave him in your barn on occasion. Maybe he can keep your goats company.”

  ***

  Fred took the news about the farm surprisingly calmly. Perhaps the solemn figure of Billy Bingham who stood before him in the kitchen had something to do with that. Marcie had wisely left it for Billy to describe to him the merits of moving to an operational farm, and despite his stubborn comment earlier, Fred was quick to admit how much more practical it would be.

  “You say you keep chickens and rabbits?” he said, wheeling forward until he was no more than a foot away from the boy. “It’s been almost two weeks since I’ve eaten fresh meat.”

  “Yes sir. We also got ducks, a pig, and two goats.”

  “Goats? What do you want them for?” Fred asked, frowning. “Goats eat everything in sight.”

  “We make milk and cheese from the doe, and use William to pull the field cart.”

  Fred raised an eyebrow. “You’re called Billy, and your billy goat is called William. Have I got that right?”

  Billy nodded, a serious look on his face. “I’m named after my grandfather, but that was before we brought the goats to the farm. My father named the billy goat William so neither of us would get confused when he shouted at us. That’s what he liked to say. It’s a joke. My father never shouted at me. At least, not much.”

  “Sounds like he was a good man. And had a fine sense of humor too.” Fred spun one wheel of his chair to
face Marcie. “You played that perfectly, old woman. Nothing like a strong upstanding boy like Billy here to get to my soft side.” He spun the wheel back around again. “How big is this farmhouse of yours? Will it fit all five of us?”

  “There’s only two bedrooms, but the living room is big. It’s got two sofas.”

  Fred considered this. “Me and Eric bed down in the living room here. No reason why we can’t do the same at your place.” He frowned. “One more thing. How do you feel about Marcie and Simone sleeping in your parents’ bedroom. That bother you at all?”

  Billy nodded emphatically. “I’d like that. It’s been scary upstairs on my own. Sometimes I sleep under the bed.”

  Fred let out a satisfied grunt. “That’s settled then. Tomorrow, we’ll all go over and take a look. If the place is as nice as you say, we can spend the day moving our stuff over. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of trips.”

  Simone stole a glance at Marcie, to see a relieved expression on her face. After their tour of Willow Spring, both were in no doubt that it was a far better setup than Zephyr House. Thanks to Billy, their talk with Fred had gone according to plan. Things were progressing smoothly.

  CHAPTER 29

  Mason Bonner sat at the camping table under the awning of his trailer. He stared out across the lake at the beautiful sunset before him.

  The skies were suffused in a rich palette of red, saffron, and pomegranate pink, while shafts of soft golden rays shone down onto the tranquil waters. Though a city dweller his entire life and not normally prone to the wonders of nature, he couldn’t help but feel a certain awe. At times like these, he even wondered whether perhaps there might be a Heaven. He prayed not. For if there was a Heaven, then there must be a Hell, and he knew which of the two he would be destined for.

  His reverential state quickly dissipated when, from the corner of his eye, he saw Tania come down the steps of the trailer carrying two steaming hot bowls of spaghetti carbonara. She placed one down in front of him, then sat opposite him. Mason stared down at the ungainly heap of stodgy pasta, the sweet, sickly smell of bottled cream sauce wafting under his nostrils.

  Pouring a glass of Chianti for them both, Tania started on her dinner. She wound a roll of dripping spaghetti around her fork and shoved it into her mouth with a loud slurp, then picked up her glass and washed the food down her throat.

  “What’s wrong, babe?” she asked, staring at him over the rim of her glass. “Too hot for you still?”

  “Yeah,” Mason muttered. “That must be it.”

  “Drink some wine until it cools down a little,” Tania advised, indicating to his untouched glass.

  Mason reached forward and grabbed the can of beer beside his crystal goblet and took a long slug. He hated wine. Hated the buzz, hated the hangover even more. Beer, vodka, whiskey, that he could drink all night and still feel fine the next day, chipper even. Wine made him puke.

  He checked his watch. It was 4:57 p.m. Rollins was due to call him right about now, though most likely he wouldn’t bother, Mason reasoned. After all, what was there to say? He doubted the Benton survivors had any intention of giving up their camp for just one man.

  As soon as he finished his meal, he intended calling the sheriff instead. Fuck with him some more. Tell him all the things he intended to do to Ned.

  A thought occurred to him. After supper, he’d drive down to Old Fort so Rollins could hear Ned’s screams for himself. The idea appealed to him. Smiling, he reached for his knife and fork. Despite the unappetizing dish that sat in front of him, he was hungry. Mason was a big man. He needed to eat regularly to keep up his strength.

  He was about to shove a mouthful of pasta down his gullet when his radio crackled to life.

  “Mason, do you copy me? This is Sheriff Rollins, over.”

  Mason leaned forward and grabbed the radio from off the chair beside him. “Read you loud and clear,” he replied. “You’re a punctual man, Sheriff. So what’s the news? You intend saving Ned or not? Over.”

  There was a slight delay before Rollins’s calm voice spoke again. “As you can imagine, me and my council have been working this thing all day. In the end, we all agreed that Ned’s safe return is what matters most to us. Over.”

  A surprised grin came over Mason’s face. It seemed like Rollins and his people were willing to give up their camp to save their friend after all. He couldn’t wait to tell Russ how wrong he was when he returned from Old Fort.

  He stood up from the table and stepped away to lean his shoulder against the side of the trailer. “Sheriff, you came to the right decision. Got to admire you for that. No point in any more innocent lives being lost. When do you intend moving out? Soon as I see you’re serious about this, I’ll release Ned.”

  A loud chuckle came over the airwaves. “You misunderstand me. Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. We have no intention of vacating the camp, over.”

  “Then what the hell you talking about?” Mason growled. “Don’t fuck with me Rollins, or I’ll go to work on Ned with a blowtorch. You can listen to him scream over the radio. How about that, you piece of shit?”

  There was another chuckle. “Tell you what, Mason. How about I put you on to a real piece of shit? Maybe he can explain things better than me.”

  There was a short pause before the radio came back to life. A familiar voice spoke in a quavering tone. A voice Mason had gotten to know well over the past couple of weeks.

  “Mason…it’s me…Russ. Don’t ask me how, but the sheriff tracked us down to Old Fort. He’s got Ned back and taken me prisoner.”

  “What the fu—”

  “He’s got a proposition for you. Please Mason, do as he says, or else they’re going to do terrible things to me…” Russ became practicably unintelligible as he broke down. “Awful things,” he sobbed. “You have no idea.”

  A moment later, Rollins came back on the radio. “All right Mason, I’m going to keep this real simple. You got until the day after tomorrow for you and your men to move out of the lodge. After that, like Russ says, we’re going to do terrible things to him. Over and out.”

  Lowering the handset, Mason stared at it in disbelief while an unrelenting pressure started to build in his head. Slowly at first, then it quickly gathered pace. His cheeks burned and he felt like his eyes were about to pop out of their sockets.

  Tania stared at him uncertainly, absently twirling her fork in a mound of spaghetti. “Babe…are you all right?”

  A succession of fireworks erupted in Mason’s head. “Yaaaaarghhh!” he yelled, exploding into an uncontainable fury.

  He dropped the radio and stumbled toward the table. Grabbing it by either side with his massive hands, he hurled it into the air. To the sound of Tania’s shrieks, the pasta bowls and wine goblets rose into the air. Somersaulting in a three-sixty turn, their contents came crashing down over her head.

  She sobbed hysterically as spaghetti strands coated in thick carbonara sauce dripped down her face. “Mason! Why did you do that?”

  Another savage roar emanated from Mason’s belly. “Waaauuurruughh!” he bellowed. “Rollins! I’m going to kill you!”

  ***

  In Camp Benton’s staff room, a grinning Sheriff Rollins placed the radio back on the table. Despite the trauma of the past twenty-four hours, he’d gotten a kick out of being able to turn the tables on Mason. More than anything, he felt a huge relief that he and his men had been successful in rescuing Ned Granger.

  When Kit Halpern had returned to camp, excitedly telling him that Granger was being taken somewhere in Old Fort, Rollins had immediately rounded up a team of six men to go find him. Kit had been one of them, determined to seek revenge for his fallen companions.

  Driving out of camp, they’d turned right onto Cookson and shot up the road, Rollins praying that Mason didn’t spot them, or if he did, that he didn’t guess their intentions.

  Twenty minutes later, they arrived in Old Fort. After circling the streets endlessly, Kit eventually spotted a bottle-
green pickup truck and a Suzuki VStrom parked outside a corner house on a residential back street.

  Parking on the next road, the men had made their way to the back of the house and climbed over the garden wall, entering through the unlocked kitchen door. Surprising Granger’s three captors in the living room, he and his men had killed two of them. When a terrified Russ immediately thrust his hands in the air, Rollins instructed his men not to kill him.

  On arrival back at camp, Granger had insisted he was fine. After washing and changing clothes, he’d gotten straight back to work. This thing was far from over. No way in hell was Mason the kind of person who would just get up and leave Wasson Lodge. And no way in hell did Granger not want to be involved in the plan to oust him.

  Bert Olvan and Henry Perter stood to either side of their handcuffed prisoner. “All right guys, lock him up. We’re done with him for the moment. Tonight, I’ll begin with his interrogation.” He leered at Russ. “You know how that goes, don’t you?”

  “Please, Ned, I-I’ll tell you everything. There’s no need to hurt me,” Russ said in a barely audible voice. “I’m not a brave man. I can’t pretend otherwise.”

  Granger stared at him coldly. “Trouble is, Russ, I don’t believe you. I got to dunk you twice to make sure you tell me the truth. That’s what you said, right?”

  With a whimper, Russ’s legs buckled. Olvan and Perter seized him roughly by the arms and dragged him out of the room.

  “Ned, you really intend on waterboarding him?” Mary Sadowski asked curiously as soon as Russ had left the room.

  Granger shrugged. “Right now, my inclination is yes. I’ll see how I feel later.”

  “Good,” Sadowski replied. “After what he did to our three boys, that weasel-faced sonofabitch deserves everything he gets.”

  “I won’t hold you back,” Rollins said. Earlier, Granger had gone over everything that had transpired since the ambush. Russ had been involved in everything, including the murders of Chris and his men at the lodge.