Following Connie’s instructions, he proceeded straight down Highway 60, which turned into 13th Street closer into town. The route took him past a cemetery with a large columbarium filled with cinerary urns. Someone had used red spray paint to write “Superpox-99 Was No Accident” across the face of the white brick walls. Beyond the cemetery was a gas station, vacant except for two armed men who stood guard over the pumps. Neither made any kind of threatening move as he passed.
On the opposite side of the street was a small market, advertising homemade butter, cheese, and pies. Beyond that was a church with several white crosses made from PVC pipe. The words “God Didn’t Do This” were spray painted across the front of the church. For the next few miles, there was more of the same: gas stations, takeout restaurants, churches, and the occasional house, many of them vandalized with similar graffiti.
As they passed an animal hospital, Bowie leaned his head out the passenger window and began barking. A group of cats had collected under the awning and were watching him warily. Perhaps they had been freed weeks earlier and considered it their home, or maybe it offered shelter from the occasional storm. Either way, Bowie was far more eager to introduce himself than they were to have his company.
“Not today,” Mason said, speeding up a little to further dissuade him.
As they got closer to the river, the road became crowded again with abandoned cars and trucks. Mason found himself driving over sidewalks and across lawns. After a few more blocks, he saw the distinctive two-story, rust-colored metal framing that supported the arts center’s stage house. Beside it sat a large white stone pillar with the word “Paramount” written down the side.
He stopped in front of a store that sold exercise apparel and shut off the truck.
Bowie stood up on the seat and stared at him intently.
“Don’t worry, I’m not leaving you.”
Mason stepped from the truck and took a moment to work the kinks out of his back. He didn’t know what he might be walking into, but going in with one leg half-asleep was never a good idea.
Bowie hopped down beside him and began studying their surroundings. The street was quiet except for the faint banging of metal coming from the direction of the river.
Mason double-checked his Supergrade. There were eight rounds in the magazine and one in the pipe. That, along with two spare magazines in a pouch at his left side, should be enough if it came to that. He considered taking the Aug. It would give him more firepower, but it would also all but ensure a fight. If possible, he preferred to meet the Ward family and hear their side of things before any shooting started.
He dug through the bed of the truck and retrieved a flashlight. With an output of five hundred lumens, it could illuminate the goal posts at the opposite end of a football field or blind an assailant for several minutes. Because it relied on light-emitting diodes, it would also never suffer a blown bulb, and the batteries would last twice as long as a comparable incandescent model.
Bowie looked up at him, obviously ready to get underway.
“All right,” he said. “Don’t rush me.”
When Mason was ready, they walked toward a small fire exit at the side of the massive theater. He tried the knob.
Locked.
He tapped lightly against the door with the back of his hand—metal and heavy by the sound of it. The hinges were on the inside, making it nearly impossible to get inside without a battering ram or a giant can opener. Okay, he thought, so much for sneaking in through the side door.
He turned left and headed around to the front of the building. Bowie took a moment to sniff a dark stain near the door and then hurried after him.
As Mason turned the corner of Winchester and 13th Street, the front entrance to the Paramount came into full view. The majestic green and yellow sign hung above the ticket booth, stirring a sense of nostalgia that could only be found at old-fashioned movie theaters. He could almost see people from the 1930s dressed in double-breasted suits and flashy dresses, lined up to see King Kong or Gone with the Wind.
Mason approached a set of ornate wooden doors. One of them had been propped open a few inches with a pair of old cowboy boots. He swung the door all the way open, sliding the boots over to hold it in place. A steady draft of cool air flowed from the dark lobby.
Bowie immediately slipped in and began sniffing around. Mason followed behind him, studying the room. Posters lined the walls, and a thick gold and burgundy carpet adorned the floor. At the front of the lobby was a concession stand, now dark and empty. On either side of the glass counter were two sets of double doors that led into the theater.
He walked slowly around the lobby, taking a moment to look at the old movie posters. Mason had always harbored a fondness for movies, especially westerns that reminded viewers that sometimes all that stood in the way of evil were a few brave men. Some of his favorite classics were The Magnificent Seven, Rio Bravo, and The Outlaw Josey Wales.
He stepped over to one of the theater doors and pulled it open. It was incredibly dark inside. Only the back few rows of seats were visible in the light spilling from the lobby.
Bowie stood close beside him, not entirely sure a dog should be alone in such a strange and dark place.
One by one, Mason propped open the remaining theater doors. Even with all eight open, much of the room was still blanketed in darkness. He clicked on his flashlight and swept it from side to side to get the general layout of the room. In all his years, he had never seen a theater quite like the Paramount. It was as if he had traveled back in time to witness the birth of American movies. Long rows of burgundy seats stretched in every direction. The walls were painted gold and lined with colorful murals of famous Italian characters, including Harlequin, Pierrot, and Pieroette.
He stepped in, crossing a threshold that seemed to span both space and time. The aged floor was springy and covered in the same thick carpet as the lobby. He turned his flashlight toward the front of the theater, barely able to make out the huge stage framed with an ornate black and gold proscenium.
“Hello!” he shouted, his voice echoing like he was standing at the mouth of an underground cavern. “Anyone here?”
There was no answer.
Mason stood for a moment and listened.
Nothing.
If the Wards were in the building, they were either asleep or ninjas hiding in the rafters. He shined his light up to study the metal framework above him. Nope, no ninjas.
He walked down the center aisle toward the front of the theater. Bowie stayed close by his side. Mason found it amusing that a dog that wouldn’t hesitate to stare down a rhinoceros could be as timid as Scooby Doo in the dark.
A short set of steps led up onto the stage. He sent Bowie up first, figuring it might be good for his confidence. The dog crept up the stairs, his nose glued to the stage floor as he tried to discern the sweat from a hundred famous performers. After circling the stage, he returned to the top of the stairs and looked down at Mason.
“Well, where are they?”
Bowie stared at him.
Mason walked up the stairs and across the empty stage. If the Wards were in the building, they had to be in the stage house. He hoped that he hadn’t come all the way to Ashland for nothing. If they had moved on, it would be all but impossible to find them in a world where most information was now passed by word of mouth.
With Bowie at his side, he walked to the back of the stage and pushed through a set of heavy velour curtains. Beyond the stage prep area was a hallway with three identical sets of stairs leading up. None looked any more promising than the others.
He slowly climbed the first set of stairs, walking as quietly as his boots allowed. At the top were two dressing rooms, both empty except for a few pieces of furniture. The rooms had a musky odor of perspiration, gin, and cigarette smoke all rolled into one.
Mason returned to the main floor and tried the second set of stairs. They led to a rehearsal room with its door
sitting wide open. Two large windows graced the back wall, their blinds pulled up to allow the sunlight to enter. A baby grand piano was on the right side of the room, and on the left sat two antique armchairs, a coat rack, and a couch. A man was asleep on the couch, snoring loudly.
Bowie looked up at Mason.
Mason motioned for him to stay put while he scanned the room for weapons. He spotted a shotgun resting on top of the piano and a holster hanging on the coat rack. Both of them would take too long to get to.
He bumped the door with the back of the flashlight.
The sleeping man startled, jerked upright, and reached for his pistol.
“Don’t,” Mason warned, gripping his Supergrade.
The man stayed his hand. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, probably about the same age as Mason’s father. He wore a pair of faded jeans and a white t-shirt covered in food stains. A button-up shirt, cowboy hat, and a trench coat hung from the coat rack. A pair of black boots rested near the foot of the couch.
“What the hell do you want?” he demanded. Before Mason could answer, he added, “Jeezus, that’s a big dog.”
“Are you Joe Ward?”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “What if I am?”
“I’ve received a complaint about you and your sons.”
Joe laughed as his hand continued toward the revolver resting in its holster.
“If you touch the weapon, I’ll shoot you where you lie.”
He slowly pulled his hand back.
Bowie advanced into the room, making a wide circle around the man.
“Who the hell are you to come into my house—”
“I’m Deputy Marshal Mason Raines.” Mason parted his blazer so that the man could see his badge.
“A US marshal?” The man eyed Mason warily. “Last time I checked, marshals have no business butting into a town’s affairs.”
“The complaint says that you’ve been using inhumane punishments.”
“Is this some kind of joke?” he said, getting to his feet.
Bowie immediately moved toward him, growling.
Joe abruptly sat back down on the couch, pressing himself up against the back.
“If that dog bites me, sure as shit, I’ll kill it with my bare hands.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
Joe started to sweat as Bowie eyed him.
“We only did what needed to be done. You ain’t got no call to be hasslin’ me like this.”
“Did that include branding a young woman?”
Joe licked his lips. “Brandin’s a reasonable form of punishment. People who are branded don’t forget what they done wrong. Besides,” he said with a toothy smile, “what man don’t wanna brand a pretty lady? Come on, admit it. Cowboys like to mark their herd. It’s only natural.”
Mason weighed shooting Joe Ward right then and there. Certainly, there would be no loss to the world. But killing in cold blood was not his way. He would finish gathering the facts and then decide what punishment fit the crime.
“I’m guessing it’s also true that you smashed a boy’s foot with a sledgehammer.”
“What can I say? We got tired of chasing him.”
“And cutting out a man’s tongue? Did you get tired of him talking?”
“You know as well as anyone we can’t allow mouthing off to the law.” Joe slid forward to the edge of the couch, and Bowie gave a deep warning growl. “I ain’t gonna deny that my boys and I are holdin’ this community accountable for their crimes. And maybe everyone don’t agree with our ways, but what we do is effective. Ain’t hardly nobody stealin’, rapin’, or murderin’ no more.”
Mason looked at the man and felt nothing but disgust. He was worse than a vigilante. He was a vigilante hiding behind a badge.
“I don’t suppose you’d leave if I gave you and your boys an ultimatum to get out of town.”
“Why the hell should we?”
“That’s what I figured.”
“Let’s cut to the chase, Marshal. You ain’t about to shoot me lyin’ here like this. So, you might as well get the hell out.” Joe Ward flopped back down on the couch, crossed his arms, and closed his eyes. “Close the door on your way out, will ya, Marshal?”
Mason felt his temperature rising.
“Get on your feet.”
Joe opened one eye. “Or what?”
Mason drew his Supergrade and shot him.
The bullet tore off Joe’s big toe, and he leaped up, bellowing in pain.
Bowie immediately started to move in, but Mason waved him back.
“You son-of-a-bitch!” Joe shouted, hopping around on one foot. “You blew my damn toe off.” Dark pools of sweat were forming on his white shirt, and with every hop, blood smeared on the hardwood floor.
“You should count yourself lucky. I was tempted to shoot off something else.”
Joe flopped back on the couch and held up his foot to get a better look.
Mason holstered his pistol. “I’m going to give you a chance to prove just how much people appreciate your particular brand of justice.”
“How you gonna do that?” he whined, nearly crying from the pain.
“All I can tell you is that you’re not going to like it.”
Mason pressed Joe Ward up against a light pole in front of the Paramount.
“Wrap one leg around the pole.”
“What?”
Mason pressed his boot against Joe’s bloody toe.
“Agh! Stop! Please! Jeezus, stop!”
“Wrap one leg around the pole,” he repeated.
Joe swung his right leg around the pole.
“Now cross the other one over the top and tuck it behind the pole.”
He did as instructed.
“Now lower to the ground in a sitting position.”
“What the hell are you—”
Mason stepped on his toe again.
“Shit!” Joe shrieked, collapsing into a sitting position with one leg wrapped around the pole and the other tucked in behind him.
Mason put both hands on Joe’s shoulders and pushed him all the way down to the ground.
“What the hell is this contortion?” Joe asked, trying to shift around.
“It’s called the grapevine. Uncomfortable to get into and nearly impossible to get out of without help.”
“You’re crazy, Marshal.”
“I could have tied you to the pole, but you’re hardly worth the rope.”
Mason stepped back and inspected his handiwork. A few people could escape the leg lock, but not many. Within minutes, it would become quite painful, causing cramps to the man’s legs. Joe would struggle like hell to get free, but Mason was confident that he was far too heavy to pull himself up the pole. The injured toe would further ensure that he couldn’t snake his foot out from underneath. In the end, he would surrender and lean against the pole, exhausted from the effort.
“What kind of monkey shit is this?” growled Joe.
“This is you getting your just rewards.”
“I’ll kill you for this, Marshal. I swear to God I will.”
“Maybe.”
Joe jerked upward with all his strength, trying to lift his body up the pole. He barely moved, certainly not enough to untangle his legs. He flopped back down.
Mason turned to walk away.
“You can’t just leave me here.”
“Sure I can.”
Joe glared at him. “I’ll starve to death. Or worse, get eaten by dogs.”
“If you’re so loved by your flock, someone will come along and help you get free.” Mason looked up and down the street. A few people were paying attention to what was happening, but none were coming in his direction. “On the other hand, they may decide to express their displeasure with your justice system. I’m going to leave your fate in the hands of your faithful subjects. Understand, however, that if you do get free, the next time I see you, I’ll put you down like a la
me horse.”
Satisfied, Mason walked slowly back to his truck. Bowie stared at Joe for a few seconds trying to make sense of what game they were playing. When he couldn’t figure it out, he hurried after his master. Mason opened the door to the truck and Bowie hopped in.
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