THE DEAD MAN: KILL THEM ALL
By Harry Shannon
Copyright © 2011 by Adventures In Television, Inc.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.
All Rights Reserved.
Cover Design by Carl Graves
Previous Books in the DEAD MAN series…
Face of Evil by Lee Goldberg & William Rabkin
Ring of Knives by James Daniels
Hell in Heaven by Lee Goldberg & William Rabkin
The Dead Woman by David McAfee
The Blood Mesa by James Reasoner
Table Of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
Near Dry Wells, Nevada
Friday, 8:12 a.m.
“Help! Over here!”
Matt Cahill shaded his eyes. Even this early in the morning the fierce Nevada sunshine slammed down like a giant metal press. The desert was flat and freckled with flat rocks. Clumps of blue sage sprouted here and there, tiny flowers open and gasping with thirst. Matt had jumped off a flatbed truck when the driver turned east, figuring he’d easily catch another ride, but no one had passed this way in more than an hour. He’d started walking and was completely lost. Now he wondered if he was also hearing things.
“Help!”
A male voice? Then Matt spotted the boy, who was jumping up and down, waving frantically. He also saw a shirtless, sunburned man in overalls nearby, walking in circles. He took in the two racing bicycles resting against the side of what appeared to be an old, boarded-up mine located on some scruffy ranch property. Matt dropped his backpack, his grandfather’s ax, and his worn bedroll and sprinted in that direction.
He jogged past a sign that read “Kearns Property Leave Shit Here,” and as he got closer to the boy, the situation clarified itself. The redneck man was shouting and cursing, delusional or completely drugged out. He had some mining tools and bottles of water, ropes and a few sample sacks. Perhaps he’d been prospecting in the mine when something collapsed. The two bikes were top-of-the-line, the kind used for long distances.
One of the riders was missing.
Panting, Matt arrived at the spot. The boy, a thin kid with freckles, wasn’t as young as Matt had first thought, maybe late teens. He had been crying. “She’s down there, my kid sister is down there. Do you have a cell phone, mister? I called our dad for help, but mine just up and died. I’m not even sure he heard me.”
Matt shook his head. “Sorry, I don’t. What happened?”
The boy said, “We were daring each other, just screwing around. My kid sister went down in there as a joke and something collapsed. Now I can hear her calling for help, but there’s no way down.”
“No way down?” Matt looked at the miner, a wreck of a human with missing teeth. “How do you get down in there, friend?”
The man screamed and batted at his own clothing. Speed freak, maybe. He looked useless. Spit flew from his mouth.
The kid said, “I tried to crawl in, but it’s straight down—something fell apart. This old bastard won’t tell me what to do.”
Matt stepped closer and looked into the mine shaft. The kid was right: behind the ring of rocks, everything just dropped away, but he heard the girl calling for help. Matt stepped back, evaluating. The miner had a lot of equipment, much of it modern. He’d clearly been down below many times. There were small cutting tools, extra-strength ropes, and a pair of night-vision goggles. The guy was just too stoned to help. Matt walked closer, but the miner grabbed a claw hammer and threatened him.
“Easy, old-timer. Are you Mr. Kearns? Look, I just need to borrow some of your gear,” Matt said.
“The fuck back!” Kearns bellowed as he swung the hammer at Matt’s head. Matt stepped inside the blow, knocked it up and away with his left hand, and punched twice, once over the heart and once in the side of the neck. Kearns sank to his knees, red faced and retching.
“Stand back. What’s your name?” Matt said to the freckle-faced kid.
“Jeb Pickens.”
“Jeb, you keep an eye on that crazy son of a bitch. If you have to, hit him in the balls with something.”
Matt Cahill grabbed some rope and a bottle of water from the miner’s stash. He examined the night-vision goggles, which seemed easy enough to work, so he took them, too. He moved quickly to the mine entrance. Here goes…
Matt secured the rope to a boulder near the entrance, then lowered himself into the cool, dark mine. The air thickened…small things scuttled away…a rattler stirred and expressed annoyance. Matt tried to move slowly and deliberately. The movements weren’t that foreign to him and his strong arms supported him—he’d climbed up and down hundreds of trees as a lumberjack. Working with one rope wasn’t all that different. As he descended into the shaft, the sunlight shrank above him and his eyesight gradually failed.
“I’m coming down,” Matt called. “Try to step back out of the way.”
“Okay.” A female voice. Below him, close now.
Matt paused for a moment, slipping the goggles on and experimenting. After a few seconds he found the right switches and the gear clicked on. The world turned green and black, images distorted and weirdly flowing, but he could see. As Matt continued to lower himself, hand over hand, he looked down.
She stood at the bottom of the trench and to one side, a teenage girl in denim shorts and a loose men’s T-shirt. She carried herself well, seeming more scared than injured. That was good, because Matt had to help her climb back out. He dropped down next to her, assessing her expression. Her eyes glowed strangely in the infrared light. He’d almost forgotten that she couldn’t see a thing. He touched her arm and she jumped.
“Are you thirsty?”
She nodded, so he opened the water bottle and fed her a few sips, then drank some himself. It was warm but delicious.
“My name is Matt Cahill,” he said. “What’s yours?”
“Suzie.”
“Well, Suzie, I’m going to lead you to a rope. Can you climb?”
She nodded in the dark. “Just get me out of here. I’ve never been so scared in my entire life.”
“Take my gloves,” Matt said. “They’ll help you get back up.” He took Suzie’s hands gently, helped her tug on the work gloves. Then he led her to the rope, almost banging her head with the long nose of the NV goggles. Strange contraption, but remarkably effective. Matt thought, No wonder our soldiers have such an advantage in combat.
The girl found the rope, and Matt guided her feet to the first footholds. Looking up, he described the climb as best he could, put his hands on her waist and gave her a good start up the wall, then stepped back.
“Just keep going, Suzie. You’ll see the sunlight soon. If you have to stop and rest, take your time. I’ve got some gear on. I can see okay down here.”
Matt decided not to tell her he wasn’t fond of creepy crawlies.
Eventually the g
irl reached the top—Matt could hear the boy screaming for joy. After testing the rope, Matt began to climb back up. Without the gloves, the rope cut deeply into his hands, but they were calloused from years of physical labor. He kept his eyes on the rock face, just to make sure nothing slimy or furry was planning a sudden assault. Boards and rock groaned and moaned around him, and suddenly the walls began closing in—Matt felt claustrophobic. He wanted to get the hell out of there before something else collapsed. He was born for the mountains, not for a dark cave in the desert.
As he reached the top, the world went white. Suddenly Matt couldn’t see.
He cursed, almost let go of the rope. He’d forgotten to turn off the goggles, and the sudden appearance of sunlight as he reached ground level momentarily blinded him. Matt found foot purchase in the rock, let the NV goggles dangle around his neck, and blinked feverishly, then kept his eyes closed for a while, his muscles trembling. White spots gradually turned dark again, and Matt opened his eyes. His vision had returned to normal. Satisfied, he climbed the rest of the way out and rolled into the hot sand, relieved and panting.
“Mister, we are so damned grateful, I can’t tell you!” Jeb exclaimed.
Matt sat up. The miner had crawled away and was sitting near a cactus, cradling his claw hammer. Matt waved, “Sorry about that, mister.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” the man said. A crafty look crossed his pocked features.
“That Dark Man done it. He pushed her down there. He does all kinds of bad shit.”
Matt Cahill felt a chill in his bones. Mr. Dark is here?
Before he could ask any questions, the two teens started screaming and waving. Someone was coming from the highway. Their father at long last, driving a battered white police cruiser.
It said “Dry Wells Sheriff” on the side.
CHAPTER TWO
Dry Wells, Nevada
Friday, 9:06 a.m.
Matt Cahill walked down the sidewalk and through the ghost town with Sheriff Pickens by his side. Word of the rescue had spread quickly. Folks came out onto the old wooden sidewalks to stare, and a few older people even cheered him. It seemed there were very few residents left in this town. Most of the young citizens had moved away in search of better schools and jobs. Those who stayed behind had a deep love for local traditions and the state’s rich history. Clearly the teen he had saved was a precious commodity, and Dry Wells was understandably grateful for Matt’s good deed.
Their sheriff was a big man, wide and tall, with white hair bound in a ponytail and a large, arrogant beard. He looked to be in his early sixties, and Matt had taken him for an ex-hippie who’d originally come out to a commune to smoke pot and get laid. Pickens was the kind of man who grew up and sobered up but had never returned home. His tan uniform was stretched tight across his ample belly and thick arms, and his chest hair was like a scrap of white shag carpet. His wife had died some time ago.
“Thanks, mister!” a gray-haired woman called. She was dressed as a nineteenth-century prostitute, frilly dress and all. She probably ran the tourist shop beneath the old brothel. Feeling a bit silly, Matt waved hello. He felt like a politician on parade.
“You’re welcome.”
Matt Cahill had stuffed his battered hat in his pocket and slung the bedroll, long ax, and backpack over his right shoulder. Although he certainly looked the part of a cowboy, Matt came from timber country. The nearby Ruby Mountains looked a lot more like home than this ghost town did. Matt didn’t belong down with these flatlanders, on the edge of an eternal desert. He tried to smile and get past this experience, but he felt distracted.
His mind was on what the miner Kearns had said—something that made it sound like his nemesis, the Dark Man, had been here recently. Matt figured he would put in just enough time with the sheriff to be polite, and then go back and check out that possibility. He felt better on his own and out in the open anyway. On top of that, he’d already attracted way too much attention. Sooner or later someone would recognize him.
Knowing he was trapped for the time being, Matt tried to relax and let his momentary celebrity roll off him. He smiled and waved and let people shake his hand.
“Buy you a beer?” Sheriff Pickens said. “Least I can do.”
Matt said, “I’m sure you have more important things to do. I think I’ll just relax for a while and then be on my way, if that’s okay.”
“It’s your town for as long as you want it,” Sheriff Pickens said. “We’re beyond grateful for what you’ve done.”
Matt paused on the sidewalk and took in his surroundings. Though there were homes and small ranches surrounding it, historic Dry Wells itself looked like the abandoned set of a classic cowboy movie. The narrow wooden-plank sidewalks were bordered by split-rail horse hitches and fronted small buildings faded by weather and the relentless Nevada sun. The overall shape of the tourist town was loosely oval, with the main opening facing east. The sheriff’s office and small jail cells sat at the west end, with a small alley on either side. In the center of the street sat a small gazebo littered with beer bottles and trash.
To the north and south there were empty storefronts, a grocery, Wally’s Saloon, a closed tourist shop, a two-story hotel with a handful of empty rooms, and an abandoned movie theater. On the other side of the street sat an office and stables. A hand-lettered sign read “Vet.” Next to that building squatted an old whorehouse left fully decorated just for show.
All in all, it was kind of fun.
Pickens laughed. “You trying to memorize the place?”
“I like it,” Matt said. “I come from a small town.”
The sheriff grinned. “Folks say we should put a mirror at one end, just to make it look bigger. Come on, let’s get us some shade.”
The two men walked briskly west past the old hotel towards the alley, boots thumping over the splintering wooden boards. The Nevada sun sat in the pale sky like a huge white blister, and the heat remained oppressive, the air dry and still. Back to the east, where the town opened up, a pair of black vultures swam a lazy oblong over roadkill. Nothing moved on the black ribbon of highway. Many of the town’s storefronts were empty, a lot of the windows broken. Matt licked his lips. It would be high noon soon. Most living things wouldn’t want to be outside. Damn, it gets hot…
As if reading his mind, Sheriff Pickens said, “You want to wait an hour or two before you go back out there.”
“I’m starting to agree with you.”
The radio on the sheriff’s belt crackled and he answered it. “What’s going on, Barbara?”
A woman spoke hurriedly, something about an accident. Pickens sighed. “I got me something to take care of, Mr. Cahill. How about you go on inside and relax for a bit. Maybe we can talk again before you leave.”
“Sure.”
“Look,” the sheriff said, “please reconsider letting us put you up for the night. I’d at least like to buy you a big steak dinner.”
When Matt didn’t respond, Pickens sighed. “You’ll think on it?”
“I’ll think about it,” Matt said, just to get away. “We’ll see.”
CHAPTER THREE
Dry Wells, Nevada
Friday, 10:59 a.m.
As the wickedly hot desert wind moaned and strained at the dusty bathroom window, Sally Morgan stared into the cracked mirror above the sink and ran a brush through her long blond hair. Sally was still on the right side of thirty, but her blue eyes were losing their twinkle, some fine lines had broken through, and her body was softening. She sighed. Life had taken a pretty girl born to conquer the world and stuffed her into a tight waitress outfit. It was like a bad practical joke. She sniffed her armpits, sprayed on a little more perfume, and returned to work.
The tiny saloon called Wally’s was dimly lit, festooned with neon beer signs and old cowboy memorabilia. A large antique wagon wheel hung over the polished wooden bar, and George Jones whined from an antique jukebox. The street entrance was a dented metal door, but the inner entry was a
ll atmosphere—old style batwings with slats. Sawdust covered the floor. Sally often wondered what had prompted the owner to invest in a tourist saloon in old-town Dry Wells, much less name it after himself.
Wally’s was a dump.
The joint was never crowded, barely turned a profit. Then again, what the hell prompted her to continue to stay here? At least Wally got to live in the saloon and stay drunk all day, which he was right now, passed out facedown on the bar. All Sally got was spare change, smart-assed remarks about hooking, and tiny bruises on her ass cheeks from all the pinching.
Kyle Brody was still in his corner, nursing a beer. Sally knew he had a thing for her. Whenever he could get away from the garage, he’d hang around like some kind of bodyguard, trying to act charming, but Kyle was a big, clumsy boy with red hair and blotchy freckles. Still, maybe he was the best she’d be able to do. Sally hadn’t had sex since that charming traveling salesman had turned out to be a Mormon from Utah with three wives and thirteen kids. Kyle smiled. Sally smiled back.
Someone grabbed at her ass. Zeke and Hog were shitfaced again, and it wasn’t even lunchtime. Sally wondered what their boss paid them for. The rancher was known to be a penny-pincher, so why did he allow his two hands to hang out in old town plastered all day? They were a real pair, chubby Hog with his huge biceps and skinny Zeke with his knives and his rattlesnake mean. They went back and forth between Molly’s Pussy Parlor and Wally’s Saloon like a pair of trained monkeys. Molly’s for sex, Wally’s for a break and couple of more drinks.
Another grab at her butt. Sally dodged the groping hand and forced a thin smile. “Want me to refill that pitcher, Hog?”
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