by Ben Boulden
“Well?”
J.D. sighed. He raised his hands above his head. “You got me again, Sheriff.”
“I sure do, Mr. Blaze. Now, I need you to stand very still and keep your arms straight in the air.”
J.D. followed orders—something he was growing uncomfortably accustomed to—and planted a grin on his face more out habit than anything else. “I shouldn’t be surprised at the sound of my name since that—” He paused to search for a fancy Kate-approved word, “Neanderthal. The big fellow in the back room, had me figured in three minutes.”
The Sheriff pulled manacles from a hook on the wall to his right. He tossed them to J.D.
“Put those on.”
J.D. said, “I’ll have to move.”
“This scattergun tells me you’ll be nice and slow about it.”
J.D. picked the heavy wrist manacles off the floor. He clamped the left handcuff closed.
“I need to hear it click.”
J.D. snapped it closed with a loud clack. “You’re a careful bastard.”
“My mother’s affairs are none of your concern, Mr. Blaze.”
“Call me J.D.”
“I’ll leave it as Mr. Blaze for now. It’s difficult to be cordial with the man who killed my deputy.” Gentry motioned towards the wall with his scattergun. “Now, step over there. Keep your arms stretched high.”
J.D. turned to his left and took two short steps to the interior wall. The lawman on his right, a scratchy blur in his peripheral vision.
“Now what?”
“I want your hands as high on that wall as you can reach.”
A splinter from the wall’s decorative wood paneling pierced J.D.’s right palm as he obliged.
“Spread your legs and lean forward until your forehead’s against the wall.”
J.D. was off-balance without any hope of making a play for the lawman. Gentry’s blurred form disappeared from J.D.’s peripheral vision. The clack of bootheels on wood echoed behind him. J.D. tensed as he anticipated a painful blow to a kidney, maybe his head.
Gentry’s voice a soft whisper behind J.D., two feet away at the most. “Bring your left hand behind your back.”
J.D. hesitated a moment.
“I wouldn’t.” The lawman’s voice louder than before. “I have no compunction about splattering your blood on these walls.”
J.D. pulled his left hand away from the wall and brought it down in a slow arc until his knuckles touched his lower back.
“Good.”
The room went silent. J.D.’s breathing heavy in his own ears.
The clatter of steel on wood. A stabbing pain as Gentry dug a knee into J.D.’s back and smashed him tight against the wall. His left wrist jerked painfully up. His right hand yanked from the wall with enough force to make J.D. curse. Before the expletive was born he felt the iron manacle clack closed with white hot pain across both wrists.
Gentry released and stepped away from J.D in a single smooth motion.
J.D. stumbled. He tried to bring his arms up to catch his balance, but the iron handcuffs held them tight at his back with crystal pain. He took two short steps to his left, faded backwards and struck a chair below his right knee. He fell on his back with a heavy thud.
The impact brought stars to J.D.’s vision. Electric pain arced in his wrists and arms.
After what seemed like several minutes J.D. opened his eyes. His vision blurred, the cold white pinpricks receded to its edges. The shadowy ceiling beams came into focus, then Sheriff Gentry’s bare head came into view. A grim smile on his face.
“We need to talk.”
“I can talk.” J.D.’s voice seemed to quaver in his own ears. “Do I get to sit on a chair? Or am I supposed to lay on the floor all night?”
Gentry helped J.D. stand. He righted the chair that had caused the excitement and pointed to it.
“Sit.”
J.D. sat. The chair’s backrest to his right. His hands dangled behind him in the air.
Gentry, his steely eyes never wavering from J.D., opened the desk’s center drawer. He pulled a small tin of cigarette makings out, built a smoke, torched it with a lucifer and took a pull. His chair squeaked when he leaned back.
“Frank?” Gentry’s eyes remained on J.D.
A groan in response.
“You okay?”
“Son of a bitch.”
“I think he’s questioning your mother’s integrity.” A twinkle in Gentry’s eyes caught J.D. off guard. “I guess you get what you throw.”
J.D. nodded. “Sounds like it, but I won’t tell my mom if you don’t.”
“That’s a promise.” Gentry leaned forward and placed both elbows on his desk. “What happened out there?”
J.D. sat silently. The only movement his still labored breathing. He stared at the lawman while trying to hide his surprise at the question.
Gentry said, “I’m new here. I inherited Billy. The deputy you killed. I didn’t trust him much, and I know about you, Mr. Blaze. You’re a hard man and a killer, but you generally end up on the right side. So, I’m asking you, why’d you kill Billy?”
“I may need a lawyer before I get all cuddly with you, Sheriff. No offense, but this isn’t my first interrogation.”
“None taken.” Gentry took another drag on his smoke, held it near the desktop and watched its bright orange tip fade. “Not a lawyer in the whole town, Mr. Blaze.”
“No lawyers? I could settle in a town like that.”
“I can’t say I’d recommend it. I’ve been here six weeks and have yet to find a solitary thing to like about the place.” He flicked cigarette ash on the floor.
“Not even Petey’s?”
Gentry smiled to reveal white teeth. “I guess I overlooked Petey’s. A shithole, if I’ve ever seen one, but they do fry a nice steak.”
“Mine was still moving when they served it.”
Gentry leaned back in his chair, brushed something unseen from his lap. “We don’t have much time, Mr. Blaze. Maybe twenty-four hours until the circuit judge makes his appearance, say another twelve before you’re swinging at the end of a rope. And I wouldn’t like to see that. Not at all. I think we can help each other.”
The Sheriff brought the homemade to his mouth, took a pull. “There’s something not right around here. The town’s sour. And I think you can help me find out what’s behind it.”
A nice speech, thought J.D., from a man who, if he was any judge of character, spoke sparingly at best.
From the back room Frank the jailer coughed. A clock on the wall click-clacked away the seconds. The darkness outside the office windows seemed to thicken, close itself around J.D. and the lawman.
J.D. said, “These manacles are chafing. Any chance you can take them—”
J.D. heard the big man a fraction before he felt bare knuckles crash against his jaw. The chair rocked, its front leg shattered. J.D. hit the floor. Pain blistered in his shoulder, arced down his spine and blossomed across his right hip. His head smashed against Gentry’s desk, bounced. Stars sizzled across his vision, faded to gray, then black.
CHAPTER 7
The large Victorian clapboard appeared dilapidated in the moon’s glow. Rotting pine boards peeked out from beneath peeling paint. The roof’s shaking cracked and curled. Despair scuttled in Kate’s chest as she stepped onto the long porch. The boards whimpered with each step. Kate paused at the door to listen, but heard nothing other than her own breathing and the gentle whispering breeze.
Kate knocked on the door softly. She waited several seconds without response and rapped again.
The hushed sound of footfalls on protesting floorboards.
“Who is it?” The words shallow across the door’s barrier.
“Kate Blaze. I’m here to see Emma Wiley, ma’am.”
A latch clicked, the doorknob turned hesitantly. A streak of calm light filled a widening gap between door and jamb as the door opened inward. The woman cast a shadow across the narrow opening.
“It’
s quite late.” A pleasing Irish lilt.
“I know, ma’am. And I’m sorry about that, but it’s very important I speak with Mrs. Wiley.”
Kate stepped away from the door, hoping the move would ease any doubt the woman had.
“Are you Mrs. Teller?”
The woman nodded, opened the door a few more inches. “You’re alone?”
“Yes— Well, no. There’s a boy with me, but he’s waiting back on the road.”
The door began to close.
“Randy Christensen told me I would find Emma here, Mrs. Teller.”
The woman hesitated a moment, then pulled the door inward revealing her narrow frame covered with a threadbare pink cotton nightdress.
“Randy? He sent you here?”
“Randy said Emma lived here in your home.”
“This hasn’t been a home since my dear Jonathon passed from this world six long years ago.” Her mouth pinched unpleasantly.
Laudanum’s bitter smell on the woman’s voice.
“I’m sorry about your loss.”
“Yes, I suppose you are. Emma is upstairs in her room. She came home late tonight for reasons unknown to me.” Mrs. Teller’s eyes faded away from Kate as she spoke. “A friend of Randy’s is welcome here, even at such a late hour.”
Kate held the urge to check her clasp watch, knowing the hour was somewhere past ten.
“Please come in. Your name is Kate?”
“Yes, Mrs. Teller. I’m Kate Blaze.”
“I’ll fetch dear Emma.”
Mrs. Teller walked up narrow stairs, seeming to float in her long nightdress, her feet hidden beneath its worn material.
Kate stood in the dim entryway, a small oil lamp ineffectually flickered at shadows from the next room. A heartsick weariness settled on her as thoughts of J.D. sitting in a jail cell intruded. A judge and then a rope in his future.
Footsteps on the landing above pulled Kate’s attention back to the moment. A whispering, unintelligible conversation. A guttural scream. What sounded like an open-handed slap.
“Is everything okay, Mrs. Teller?”
Kate stepped towards the stairs. She palmed the Colt with practiced efficiency.
“No!” The word echoed off the walls.
Kate scrambled up the steps, two at a time. Her boots pounded on bare wood runners. Above, an angry scraping as a window opened.
“Please, Emma. Please don’t.” Mrs. Teller’s voice shrill with fear.
A heavy thump, followed by rattling glass. A gentle vibration in the floor beneath Kate’s feet. She paused, uncertain if she should continue upwards to the second floor or go down and outside.
“She go out the window?” Kate hollered.
The entire house shook, windows rattled, dust and dirt jumped, as hurried footsteps pounded across the roof. Kate turned back down the stairs. She jumped the several feet to the entryway floor. Her knees absorbed the hard landing. She steadied herself, then slammed through the door and into the moonlit night.
Across the street Jacob stood with wide-spread legs, pointing to Kate’s left.
“Over there!”
Kate ran along the front porch. The Colt still tight in her hand. Ahead she heard a grunt followed by a cracking tree limb and a cry.
“Oh please. Ohpleaseohplease.” The words running together in fear and pain.
Kate reached the porch’s edge and jumped. The .44’s front sight tracking Emma’s wreathing form.
Kate hit the ground.
She fell to her knees before toppling onto her backside. The Colt never wavered from its target.
“Hold it, Emma! Don’t you even think about moving.”
Kate rose to a knee and then found her feet. Raw pain prickled her palm, blossomed up her arm. The Colt steady, she eased towards the fallen girl.
“Are you okay?”
The girl, flat on her back, arms around her right knee, looked up. A silvery tear luminescent in the moon’s glow.
“Emma—”
A booming roar shattered the night. Kate dropped hard to the ground on hands and knees, pain grappled at her head from the blast. A howling buzz in her ears. The Colt skittered from her grasp.
Kate pulled up short when cold steel touched the back of her neck.
“Hold it right there.” The words shouted, but in Kate’s overwhelmed senses they were soft, muddled.
Kate sat back on her haunches. She raised her hands above her head.
“One move and I’ll kill you. I really will, Kate Blaze.”
CHAPTER 8
Clomping feet, buzzing whispers. A metallic clicking as someone played with a gun’s hammer.
“Would you s-stop that?” A stammering voice said.
“I’m nervous is all.”
“Yeah? Well, you’re making me nervous, too. S-so put that away before somebody gets hurt.”
A grunt. Steel on leather. “Satisfied?”
“Jes-sus.”
J.D.’s confusion built rapidly and rushed toward panic. He opened an eye. The world fuzzy, twisting into the absurd. He slowed his breathing, closed his eye again. He thought about Kate on her own in a strange and dangerous town. She could handle herself, always had, but still he worried and hoped she was okay and had a plan to get him out.
He opened his eye again. A slit this time. Above he saw the ceiling’s unfinished wood. Cell bars surrounding him. The bed’s iron end posts. His head throbbed, scorching pain flared in his jaw with every heartbeat. He kept still, silent.
A door squeaked open, closed.
A different voice. “That’s Blaze in the back?”
“Yep.” The voice belonged to Nervous, J.D thought.
Heavy footsteps approached. Stopped. J.D. heard a rattle. The snick of a key sliding into the locking mechanism.
“Gentry won’t like it if you open that door,” Stammer said.
“Gentry ain’t here, is he?”
The key turned. The tumblers rolled, the lock clacked open. J.D. took a deep breath. He tensed the muscles in his arms and legs and rolled his neck slightly. The motion caused the pounding in his head to flare. Nausea threatened to overwhelm him. His head spun. He closed his eyes again, breathed.
The door started to open on squeaking hinges.
“I’m telling you, Gentry won’t like what you’re doing.” Stammer’s voice high-pitched with tension.
“Shit, Harry. You sound like an old woman. Don’t he, Frank?”
“Blaze is a tough son of a bitch.” J.D. connected Nervous as Frank the jailer.
“He sure looks tough. What’d you hit him with, Frank? An anvil?”
Frank giggled.
The stranger stepped into the cell, floorboards whimpered under his weight.
Frank said, “I sure got him good. I sure did.”
“You want another shot at him?”
“Yeah. Yeah.” The words dripped with anticipation.
“There he is. Just waiting for—”
The outer door swung open. Bootheels on wood echoed across the office, slow at first and then hurried.
“The hell you two think you’re doing?” Sheriff Gentry burst through the door between the office and jail, grabbed Frank by his collar and yanked him backwards.
Frank gasped, stumbled against the wall.
J.D., eyes open now, started to get up. His vision went dark at the edges. He fell back on the bed. Pain rushed across his back and shoulders. His head pounded. The smell of shit and piss nauseating in the small cell. He leaned over the bed and vomited.
“Shit!” the stranger said.
“You close that damn door, Sully.”
“Did you see that, Sheriff? The big hero spilled his guts all over the floor.”
J.D., on his hands and knees, watched as the Sheriff stepped closer to Sully. He pulled a slim double-sided knife from his belt. “Close the door. Right. Now.”
Sully’s eyes narrowed. His right hand dropped to the hog leg strapped low on his hip. He looked from Gentry to the blade and b
ack. A wildness in his eyes.
“Shit. I was only kidding around, Gentry.” The decision made. He moved his hand away from his gun. “You’re always so damn serious.”
“Get out!” Gentry moved back a step. “Right now. If I see you in this office again I’ll carve you like a pig.”
Sully stood still. His face burning anger at the insult. A vein throbbed in his temple. His hand wavered above his six-shooter as he weighed his chances against the lawman a second time in as many seconds.
“Pull it.” Gentry’s voice mild, soft. “Pull it, Sully. Let’s see how fast you really are.”
Sully’s left eye twitched. He took a shuddering breath and pulled his hand away from his iron. “Just having some fun is all.”
Gentry motioned to the door into the office. “Outside. Now.”
Sully walked from the jail and through the office; one hand on the door and the other on his six-gun. He turned back to Gentry.
“You’re done here, Sheriff. D-O-N-E. You’re going to be laid out in the undertaker’s window before the week’s out just like that piece of shit Jones.”
“I’m glad you can spell, Sully.” A shotgun appeared in the lawman’s hands, both barrels looked at Sully.
“What do you know about Jones?”
With a petulant smile, Sully said, “I know he was tougher and smarter than you’ll ever be, Sheriff.”
“You kill him?” Gentry’s eyes hard.
“You’ll never know, Gentry. At least not while you’re breathing.”
Gentry’s face rigid. His finger on the scatter’s rear trigger. He breathed, removed his finger from the trigger without lowering the gun. “Get to hell out of my office.”
Sully stood in the doorway, straddling the threshold. J.D. leaned against the cell’s doorframe. He saw the hatred and fear in Sully’s eyes. He knew men like this were trouble. Proud and fearful. They hated the world for their shortcomings. The type that waited for the right moment, came at a man’s back from a blind alley without warning to plow slugs into his back.
Sheriff Gentry took a step towards Sully. He raised the shotgun to his shoulder, pulled the hammer back with a click. “Get!”