by Vivien Sparx
“Really?” Stone said, his voice flat.
“Really,” the man said and then snapped, “Unless you are calling me a liar?”
Stone paused long enough to remember the advice he had just given himself about keeping calm, and then he ignored every word of it. “Yes,” he said. “I’m calling you a liar.”
The man flinched, offended. “You got a problem, boy?”
Stone worked hard to keep his expression neutral. “Yes,” he said. “My problem is I don’t think you’re locals, and that means I don’t think this is your table. If you were locals, you would never have spoken to the waitress the way you did – and your van wouldn’t have Californian plates.”
The guy looked around to his buddy, and then turned back. “You some kind of private eye?”
“Nope. But I’m not stupid either.” Stone took another drink of his Coke, kept his hands in sight at all times. Did nothing to alarm the guy – nothing that might make him think he was a physical threat.
“We want to sit here,” the guy said to Stone, his tone low and threatening. “We want you to move.”
It was the guy with the gun down the back of his jeans who was doing all the talking. Stone was glad. It was best that he kept him close because he would be the most dangerous of the two.
“Why?” Stone asked. He turned and started up into the man’s face, keeping his eyes steady and emotionless.
“Because I just bought the SUV outside and I want to keep an eye on it,” the man growled. “So why don’t you be a good-old-boy and move your country-bumpkin ass to another table.”
Calm! Stay calm, Stone reminded himself. Count to ten.
“But I haven’t finished my Coke…” he said simply.
One… two… three… four…
The two strangers exchanged glances again. Stone saw the second man wink. He was standing back a couple of feet from the table now, so the first man had to turn his head to make eye contact. When he turned back, Stone knew by the enraged expression on the guy’s face that he was never going to reach the count of ten.
“Fuck you, boy! We – ”
It was as far as the man got. In a flash, Stone’s left hand shot out and grabbed a fist-full of the closest man’s unruly tangle of hair. He smashed the man’s face down onto the table and the guy’s head seemed to bounce back up like a rubber ball. Stone smashed the man’s head down again, this time hearing the crack of bone and cartilage, and while he was bent over, Stone reached under the guy’s jacket and pulled the pistol from the back of his jeans. He dropped it onto the tabletop and then pushed the man hard in the chest so he fell backwards against the second man. Instantly, Stone was on his feet. He was 6’ 2” of broad-shouldered lean power. His arms were thick with the taut muscle of physical labor, and his fists as he bunched them, were lumped with scar tissue across the knuckles and the size of big iron hammers. Through it all, his expression stayed remote and calm.
“Now, I’d suggest you two gentlemen apologize to the nice lady for your language, and then find another table and sit quietly until you finish your meals. Afterwards we can take this outside if you want to continue.”
The two men scrambled to their feet. The tall one had blood gushing from a broken nose where Stone had crunched his head down on the hard timber surface. His face was an ugly twisted mask of rage. He spat a mouthful of blood onto the diner floor and dragged the back of his hand across his mouth.
“Fuck you, boy!” the man hissed and stabbed a blood-covered finger at Stone. “I’m gonna rip you apart.”
Stone looked to the second guy, sizing him up. He was an inch shorter than the first man, but still a good size.
“Eat first,” Stone said calmly. “Because you won’t be able to afterwards. I guarantee you.”
“Outside!” the first man said again. “Now!”
Stone shrugged. He turned and glanced at the waitress. “Thanks for lunch,” he said. He took ten bucks from his wallet and left it on the table, beside the handgun. The woman was on the telephone, speaking urgently into the mouthpiece, and Stone paused a moment longer to asked her casually, “Are the cops on their way?”
The woman looked up from the phone and nodded. Her hands were trembling and her face was pale and frightened. “Good. Tell them to bring the paramedics,” Stone said.
And then he smiled.
Three.
Stone never expected it to be a fair fight, so as he stepped out into the oven-like afternoon heat, he was instantly alert – and as soon as he was away from the glass doors, the closest man behind him roared and lunged. Stone instinctively twisted to the left, and as the guy’s weight came heavily onto his back he flipped him over his hip so that the man landed hard on the asphalt.
“Mistake one.”
Stone didn’t hesitate. One long step, and then his boot socked into the man’s unprotected ribs with a sound like a bat hitting a ball. The man’s whole body seemed to shudder under the sickening impact. He groaned, made a soft gurgling noise in the back of his throat, and rolled away. Then Stone spun, expecting the second man to rush at him. He went down into a crouch, fists cocked and ready.
The second guy hesitated. He glanced down at the first man writhing at his feet, and some of his courage left him. When he came forward, it was in an uncertain shuffle, and Stone was charged, ready to strike.
“Mistake two. Never hesitate,” he said.
Stone lunged forward, and the second man spun into the arc of his attack. Stone tensed his hand, stiffening the fingers into a blade, and chopped down into the man’s shoulder. The blow was crippling – the man seemed to sag at the knees as Stone’s strike smashed into the man’s collarbone. He heard the brittle crack, and the man screamed in pain.
Before he could fall, Stone caught the man’s crippled arm above the join of the elbow and thrust up viciously, driving the two pieces of shattered bone together and twisting the fragments into flesh. The man screamed again, and then went limp. Stone let the man go and he collapsed face-first to the ground.
Stone stepped back, looked at the two men bleeding on the ground. In the distance, but coming quickly closer, he could hear the wail of sirens. He wondered idly whether he had time to go back into the diner and finish his Coke before the police arrived.
Four.
There were two cop cars, both white, both with flashing light bars on their roofs, both with antennas on the trunk. They blew through the turnoff trailing clouds of dust and skidded onto the highway. They came to a screeching halt in the car park of the diner, the first car slewed to the right, the second car slewed to the left like they were setting up a roadblock.
Stone just stood and watched. He saw a gold shield painted on the door of the first car with Windswept Police Department painted underneath in black letters. The car looked like it had just been washed and polished. Maybe it had been a quiet day for local law enforcement.
A thin young guy burst out of the first car. He had orange curly hair, cut short. He had big ears and an angry red rash on his neck. He was wearing a tan uniform shirt and black trousers. He looked about twenty, and the shirt looked too big for him, like he hadn’t grown wide enough at the shoulders to fill it out properly. He left the door open as he got out of the car, then he reached back in for his hat and a pump-action shotgun.
Another cop got out of the second car. He looked about the same age. He stood by his vehicle with his thumbs tucked into the bulky weapons belt around his waist, like gunslingers used to do in the old movies. The guy was chewing gum. He looked down at the two men still rolling around at Stone’s feet and blinked.
“Freeze!” the first cop shouted. He raised the gun, pumped the action and aimed it at Stone’s face. It was all high drama. Stone didn’t move. Hadn’t even planned on moving. He saw the look in the young cop’s eyes and figured he was nervous. Stone wasn’t about to do anything to find out. He raised his hands slowly above his head and just stood there.
“Freeze!” the first cop shouted again for no apparent
reason. Then he glanced over his shoulder at the back-up guy. “I got him covered, Marv. Pat him down and cuff him.”
The second cop pulled his thumbs from his belt and took out his handcuffs. He glanced down at the two bleeding men again, and approached Stone cautiously.
“Hands behind your back!” the guy with the cuffs shouted. The shouting was supposed to intimidate, sound authoritative. It was supposed to dominate the scene and the suspect – encourage their co-operation. Stone wasn’t intimidated, but he did co-operate. He lowered his hands and slid them behind his back. The cop standing behind him snapped the cuffs in place.
“I got him, Larry! I got him.”
The first cop sighed a visible breath of relief, let the tension go from his body like a balloon deflating. He set the shotgun down on the hood of his patrol car and came to Stone, suddenly full of swagger.
Stone didn’t move. Behind him, cop number two was patting him down. Found his wallet, nothing else. He held it up to show his partner. The wallet was all cracked and worn along the creases. He flipped the wallet open and turned it so he could read the license details.
“His name is Jack J. Stone,” the cop called out. “Apparently he’s from Massachusetts.”
The first cop frowned. “What does the ‘J’ stand for?”
“John”
“So your name is Jack John Stone?”
Stone shrugged. “That’s right.”
The cop made another face. “And you’re from Massachusetts? You’re an awfully long way from home.”
Stone sighed. “Any law against that?”
The cop was getting agitated. Stone could see the angry rash rising higher up his neck from below the collar of his shirt. “Do you want to tell me what you are doing so far from home?” he asked impatiently.
“Travelling.”
“To Windswept?”
“Through,” Stone said. “Travelling through Windswept. Travelling through Arizona”
“To…?”
“Parts unknown,” Stone answered vaguely. He wasn’t being elusive. He didn’t know where he would end up next. Everything depended on what he found when he got to Windswept.
“On the ground. Face down,” the cop in front of him had had enough. He barked the command, his voice suddenly loud again.
Stone stared at the officer. Expressionless. Didn’t react, didn’t move. He just stared, eyeball to eyeball for a long time. “The ground is dirty,” he said after a minute. “This is my only clean t-shirt.” There was no way he was going to lay face-down on the ground. Not for these two country cops. No way.
The angry rash on the young guy’s face suddenly began to creep up around his cheeks. He had a red bumpy face, pitted with acne scars and misaligned yellow teeth. His eyes did a funny thing, and he was just about to bluster and get rowdy about Stone’s attitude when the waitress from the diner came storming out through the glass door. She was waving her arms at the cop, making angry gestures.
“Not him, Larry Peyton. You got the wrong man!”
The young cop turned towards the woman, saw the look on her face and took a shuffling step backwards. Stone just stood quietly and watched it all unfold.
“He’s the good guy, damn it,” the waitress started doing an angry little temper dance. “It was those two. They’re the ones you need to be handcuffing!”
The cop with the skin problem backed off another pace, his face clouding over in confusion. Stone had to fight off a little smile. The kid was no match for the waitress. Stone wondered what the cop behind him was doing. Maybe calling for more backup.
“Them?” the young cop looked at the two men Stone had left bleeding on the ground.
“Yeah, them! They came into the diner looking to cause trouble. One of them had a gun. It’s inside.” The waitress put her hands on her hips. “Where is Jim Cartwright? Why ain’t he here?”
From behind Stone the second cop named Marv answered. “The sheriff ain’t workin’ this week, Miss Lilley. Got himself cut on his arm. Pretty bad, apparently. He even has a sling. Larry and me are the law round these parts until next Monday.”
The waitress stared in disbelieving silence and then just rolled her eyes. “Well this is the wrong man to be arresting. He’s the one who put these men down after they tried to make trouble.”
The young cop’s eyes went from the bodies on the ground, slowly back up until he was looking into the serene expression on Stone’s face. Stone finally let the little smile come on. He raised his eyebrows as if to say, “go figure!” and then he nodded his thanks to the waitress.
The cop blustered about for a few more seconds and then sighed. “Undo the cuffs, Marv. Put ‘em on those guys. And you better call the station and ask for the paramedics. They don’t look too good.”
Stone felt the cuffs fall from his wrists, but he didn’t do anything rash, just slid his hands into his jeans pockets, waiting. The second cop handed him back his wallet. He tucked it into his back pocket, but said nothing.
The cop named Larry turned to the waitress, still uncertain about exactly what he should do with the tall dangerous looking stranger in the t-shirt and faded jeans. “I’m putting him under your supervision, Miss Lilley,” he jabbed a thumb at Stone. “While he’s in town, you are responsible for him – just in case I hear different about what happened and need to ask more questions.”
Another ten minutes and it was all over. The paramedics arrived and put both men on gurneys. The cops turned off their flashing light bars. Passing traffic on the highway began to speed up again now there was nothing left to rubber-neck at.
Stone went back inside the diner, sat down with a weary sigh, and finished his Coke.
Five.
“I thought you were a waitress,” Stone said.
The woman smiled at him, but it was a tired little thing that only just tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I am,” she said. “I’m the waitress, the cook, the cleaner, and the owner.” She held out her hand, resting her slim hips against the edge of the table. Her fingers were long, the skin scrubbed pink. No nail-polish. No rings. Stone wondered if she was married. Maybe she took her rings off while she was at work. “The name is Lilley,” she introduced herself. “Lilley Pond.”
“Lilley Pond? Really?”
The woman nodded. “Really.”
Stone made a bemused face. “Jack Stone,” he said. “Nice knowing you.”
It was late in the afternoon. The sun was low down on the horizon now, casting long golden shadows across the desert now the afternoon had finally lost most of its heat. Stone scraped his chair back and reached into his pocket for his wallet. “Have I got time for another Coke?” he asked. “What time do you close?”
The woman glanced at her watch. “There’s time,” she said. “Do you want coffee?”
“No. Coke, thanks. Coke when it’s warm and coffee when it’s cold. It’s warm.” Stone liked to keep things simple. There was black or white, good or bad, friend or enemy, coffee or Coke. Simple choices and decisions a man could live his life by. He slid a couple of crumpled dollar bills across the table. The woman smiled.
“It’s on the house,” she said.
She brought him back his Coke in a tall frosted glass, dewy and beaded by moisture. “Even made a special effort.” She set the glass on the table, and then on impulse she went across to the door and locked it. There was a cardboard sign hanging against the glass. She turned the sign over so it read ‘Closed’, and then came back to Stone’s table. Slid out a chair opposite him and sat down, crossed her legs all in one smooth delicate motion. Stone drank thirstily, and watched the woman over the rim of the glass.
She was staring at him with an expression of open curiosity, maybe fascination. He set his glass down and stared back. “Do you want something?” He looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time. She really was an attractive woman. She had her hair up in a bun at the back of her head, but Stone guessed, if she took the pins out, it would hang down past her shoulders. Her hair
was black, and she had spectacular green eyes – like the color of a mountain lake. The zipper was down a few inches at the top of her uniform, giving just the suggestion of cleavage without making a display of herself. Stone liked that. There was still room in the world for a woman to be demure and discreet about what she did – and did not show off to the world. It was sexy.
“Where did you learn to fight like that?” she asked. “It was impressive. We don’t get a lot of violence out this way, and when we do it’s more like a push and shove at the local bar over a spilled drink. What you did to those two men… was brutal.”
Stone shrugged the comment off. He wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or not. He stared at the woman for a long time and said slowly, “I’ve had some practice.”
She noticed the two scars on his forehead. The first was old and faded by time, shaped in a curve above his right eye. The second was fresher – a line about an inch long high up near his hairline.
“The military kind of practice?”
Stone nodded. “A few years back.”
“But not now?”
“No. Not now.”
The woman bit her bottom lip between her teeth like she was unsure how much more to ask. But curiosity is a powerful thing, especially in a small community when nothing much ever happens.
“What do you do now?” She asked it warily, as though she was expecting him to shut her down.
“Travel.”
The woman sat back in her chair and thought about that for a moment before saying anything else. Stone deliberately wasn’t volunteering too much about himself yet, but he recognized the difference between this woman and the blonde who had given him a ride that morning. The blonde had been going from point A on a map to point B. This woman was a local. That meant she might be helpful, and if he was ever going to find the answers he was looking for, he knew he needed help.
“In my experience, people don’t visit Windswept. Hell, people don’t even pass through Windswept since the highway detoured past the town. The only reason we get visitors is if a traveller’s car breaks down – and you don’t look like a man who has a broken down car.”