Kill Devil Falls

by Brian Klingborg

  Her left hand brushed something solid and heavy. In her pocket. Frank’s .45. She tugged it out.

  Lee squeezed the Glock’s trigger.

  Glock firearms had a reputation for safety, especially with regard to preventing accidental discharges. For that reason, most Glock enthusiasts kept a round in the chamber, eliminating the need to cock before firing.

  Not Helen. She was never comfortable going about her daily business with a loaded and cocked gun. So when Lee squeezed the trigger, nothing happened. He lifted the Glock to his face, glared at it, furious at its obstinacy.

  Helen transferred the .45 to her right hand, fumbled for the safety.

  Lee racked the Glock’s slide, aimed, and pulled the trigger in one motion. A flash of light, a roar of gunfire. Splinters of wood exploded from the stairs inches to the left of her temple.

  Helen had never shot another human being. Never been in a gun fight.

  As a kid, she’d been as obsessed with guns and cowboys as any boy. And one of her fondest memories was digging into old leatherette-bound Time Life encyclopedia sets her dad owned, especially the one about the Old West, which featured volumes on cowboys, Indians, and scouts. By far, her favorite was The Gunfighters, with its tales of Wyatt Earp, Bat Masterson, Billy the Kid. Among the revelations contained in the book was that the prototypical cinematic scene in which our hero and the bad guy meet at high noon for a quick-draw duel virtually never happened. More often, someone just walked into a bar and shot someone else in the back.

  One of the few gunfighters who had fought such a duel was Wild Bill Hickok. By his own admission, he wasn’t the quickest draw. Instead, he took his time. While his opponent got off two, three rounds, Wild Bill methodically drew, aimed, and fired a single bullet. The difference was, his opponent missed and Wild Bill didn’t.

  Ironically, despite his calm nerves and steady hand, Wild Bill met his end the same as most other gunslingers when a man with a grudge snuck up behind him during a poker game and put a round in the back of his skull.

  Helen rolled as Lee fired again. She felt a tug at her left ear, knew the bullet had either creased it or blown a ragged hole through it.

  Resisting the urge to shoot in a panic, she leveled the .45, exhaled, gently squeezed the trigger. The .45 kicked hard. The top of Lee’s head exploded. He swayed, slowly tipped backward like a felled tree, and dropped onto the landing, coming to rest in a sitting position.

  Helen lay still for a moment, gathered her wits. Her ears pealed like a church bell signaling mass.

  After a moment, she scooted around, sat upright. She saw stars, felt sick, almost passed out.

  She took a few deep breaths, and her vision cleared. She stood, still holding the .45, and leaned heavily on the railing as she descended the stairs. She felt a trickle down her neck, touched it, saw blood on her fingers. She wobbled on rubbery legs through the restaurant and into the market before remembering that Jesse Patterson was still upstairs. Badly in need of medical attention. She couldn’t stomach the thought of retracing her steps. Best to roust the sheriff and Teddy, let them handle it.

  Helen unlocked the front door from the inside, emerged into the cold night air. She staggered down the sidewalk, Frank’s .45 still dangling from her hand.

  After a seemingly endless walk, she passed Big Ed and Teddy’s red farmhouse, its windows dark. Not much farther now. She wanted to vomit and curl up in the dirt for a long nap, but instead focused on putting one foot in front of the other.

  The Explorer was back, parked beside her Charger outside the jailhouse, but Helen barely took note of the fact. When she reached the jail’s wooden porch, she climbed halfway up the steps, then collapsed in a heap.

  Helen came to, face against a thin, scratchy mattress. She groaned, lifted her head, took in the brick walls, the door constructed of iron slats. She was in Rita’s cell, on the cot. A halogen lantern sat on the floor.

  She touched the back of her head, felt gauze and tape. The room started spinning. She lay back down until it stabilized. Then she slowly sat up.

  Next to the lantern on the floor was an open first aid kit. Helen riffled through the kit until she found some aspirin. She tore open the package with her teeth and dry-swallowed two pills.

  She shivered, cold, and realized she wasn’t wearing a shirt. Just her bra, a lacy lavender number with a little bow between the two breast cups. She wondered where her shirt was, who had undressed her, treated her head wound.

  “Marshal?”

  A whisper came out of the darkness.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me. Lawrence.”

  Of course. She mentally slapped her forehead with a palm. She rose from the mattress. Her shirt was on the floor, crusted with partially dried blood. Her coat was lying across the foot of the cot. She left the shirt where it was and gingerly slipped into her coat, wincing at the pain in her knotted muscles, the burn of fabric rubbing against her cuts and bruises. She picked up the lantern, walked out of her cell, peered through the iron slats of Lawrence’s cell door.

  “Are you okay, Lawrence?”

  “Can you let me out?” Lawrence said. “Please?”

  “Not just yet. Soon.”

  “I’m cold. My feet are going numb.”

  She remembered he was just wearing flip-flops.

  “I’ll see about getting you some socks and shoes.”

  “What happened? Are you hurt? There was a lot of commotion but nobody would tell me what’s going on.”

  Helen pictured the dead man at the top of the stairs, the contents of his skull dripping down the wall. She didn’t have the energy to explain.

  “It’s a long story. For now, sit tight, okay?”

  She was heading for the door to return to the Trading Post when it suddenly banged open. Teddy entered, supporting Jesse Patterson with a hand around the old man’s waist.

  “Put him in there,” Helen said. Together, they escorted Jesse into Rita’s cell, laid him on the mattress. Jesse groaned.

  “How are you doing, Mr. Patterson?” she said. He was a mess. Bruised, battered, bloody. A ragged cut in his eyebrow, swollen lips, a nasty hematoma bulging from his forehead.

  “Tip-top!” Jesse snapped. “Aside from the fact that a crazy man just tried to beat me to death.”

  “Where’s Mrs. Patterson?” Helen asked.

  “Still upstairs at the Trading Post,” Teddy said. “She’s okay. My dad’s there now. Said to bring Mr. P over here, see what I can do for him.”

  “You shouldn’t have moved him,” Helen said.

  “My dad wanted to clear the scene,” Teddy said.

  “I’m fine,” Jesse said. “I just need some aspirin. And a drink. Scotch would be good. And a little grass might help with the pain.”

  Helen looked quizzically at Teddy, but he was busy poking through the contents of the kit. Its assortment of Band-Aids and gauze seemed inadequate for the damage to Jesse’s face.

  “Did you bring me in from the porch?” she asked. “Patch me up?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Me and my dad, we heard you drop out there. When we found you, you was babbling, but after a minute, we got the picture.” He was holding a bottle of peroxide in one hand, sterile pads in the other. “Holy gosh, I don’t know where to start.”

  Jesse’s teeth started chattering.

  “Got any blankets?” Helen asked.

  “At the house.”

  “That’ll take too long. Lend me your flashlight.”

  Teddy slipped the flashlight out of the loop on his belt, handed it over. Helen left the cell, rounded the corner, entered the guard room. As before, Rita’s corpse lay on the bed, still wrapped in the Indian blanket. Helen mouthed a silent apology to her, tugged at the blanket. It was glued to Rita’s skin with dried blood. Rita’s dead eyes watched as Helen gently peeled the blanket away.

  She carried the blanket back into the cell, laid it over Jesse’s legs and belly. Teddy recognized the blanket, glanced up at Helen with raised
eyebrows. Helen shrugged. Teddy shrugged back, sponged blood off Jesse’s face.

  “How can I help?” she asked.

  “Maybe just clean these cuts while I start on that eyebrow.”

  “Sure.” She took a package of sterile pads, ripped it open. “Mr. Patterson, can you tell me what happened?”

  Jesse snored.

  “He’s out,” Helen said.

  “Probably got a concussion.”

  The old man shifted, muttered under his breath.

  “What’s he saying?” she said.

  “I don’t know, can’t make it out.”

  “Mr. Patterson, can you hear me?” she asked.

  Jesse’s eyes popped open. He spoke clearly.

  “Where is it, you cunt?” he said.

  His eyes closed and he resumed snoring.

  Helen frowned at Teddy. “Did you hear that?”

  “Sure did. Like I said, he must be out of his head. Wake up now, Mr. P!”

  “Let him sleep,” Helen said. “That old wives’ tale about keeping a concussion victim awake isn’t true.”

  “Really?”

  “From what I understand. But we should get him to a hospital.”

  “As soon as my dad’s done at the Trading Post, one of us will run him down to Donnersville in the Explorer. For now, let’s do what we can.”

  Helen helped wipe the blood off Jesse’s face while Teddy applied a butterfly bandage to his eyebrow. Then Teddy found ice packs in the first aid kit, popped them, laid one on Jesse’s forehead, the other on his cheek. Helen pulled Jesse’s collar aside to clean his neck—she saw a spherical purplish wound marking the skin.

  “Is that a bite mark?” she asked.

  Teddy shrugged. He pulled the blanket up to Jesse’s chin, tucked it around his body.

  “I don’t think he’s as bad as he looks, but let’s keep him warm. Oh, here.” Teddy pulled something from his coat pocket, handed it to her. It was a black shirt, orange stripes on the upper sleeves, a rectangle across the chest that read Harley Davidson, spelled out in glittering sequins, most of which had long ago fallen off. “After I bandaged you up, I stopped by the house and got you a clean shirt before I headed over to help my dad.”

  “Thanks.” She removed her coat, turned her back to Teddy, slipped the shirt over her head. It fit almost perfectly, just a tad snug. She shrugged back into her coat.

  “Don’t tell me this shirt used to be yours and you outgrew it,” she said.

  “Uh, no … Rita left it here. When she run off. I always thought she’d come back, you know? So I saved some of her stuff.”

  “Oh.” Helen didn’t know how she felt about wearing a dead woman’s discarded T-shirt. But it was better than nothing. “I’m going to head over to the Trading Post.”

  “My dad said you should stay here.”

  “Did he, now?”

  “You’re part of the investigation. What with … the shooting.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I’m just telling you what he said.”

  “Well, I want to have a look at the … the body. And we need to get your dad back here so you can run Mr. Patterson down to the hospital. Can I hang on to this flashlight for a bit?”

  Teddy shrugged. She took that as a yes.

  “Marshal,” came Lawrence’s voice.

  “Right. Teddy … How long are we going to keep Lawrence in the cell?”

  “Until my dad says he can come out.”

  “I’m pretty sure I just killed the guy who killed Rita.”

  “Lawrence is still a suspect, till my dad says otherwise.”

  Helen went to the door of Lawrence’s cell. “Be patient, Lawrence. We’ll have this cleared up as soon as possible.”

  “But it’s dark in here. Marshal, I’m cold!”

  Helen pushed the front door open and entered the night.

  Helen walked along Main Street, giving wide birth to the sinkholes, feeling weak and jittery. She patted the holster on her belt. Empty. Last she’d seen the Glock, it was in Lee Larimer’s hands.

  Empty buildings to either side loomed menacingly, their derelict shells possible havens for more knife-wielding murderers, mutilated animals, cannibalistic mountain men.

  Helen heard the crunch of boots on gravel, jerked her head around—but the street was clear. Just her nerves.

  As she shuffled along the sidewalk, breath steaming, she listened to a cacophony of hoots and chitters, buzzes and croaks. Why were people always talking about going to the mountains to get away from it all? It was noisy as shit out here.

  She reached the Trading Post, tried the front door. Locked again. She went down the alley, crossed the yard, entered through the back door.

  The smell hit her immediately. Meat. Feces. She covered her nose and mouth with her hand.

  “Sheriff?”

  She moved around to the foot of the stairs, glanced upward.

  Lee Larimer still sat slumped against the wall on the landing. Someone, presumably Big Ed, had covered him with a tarp. Larimer’s muddy shoes protruded from the tarp’s bottom.

  Helen began to shiver violently. An adrenaline rush. The cold, hard realization she’d killed another human being. She closed her eyes, tried to picture sunny green meadows, frolicking lambs, kittens in Easter bonnets.

  Rat kings and spider-dachshunds invaded her thoughts.

  She shook the images from her head and ascended the stairs, using Teddy’s flashlight to ensure she wasn’t stepping on anything of importance—a spent shell casing from Frank’s gun, some other piece of evidence. She reached for the tarp.

  “I wouldn’t do that!” a voice barked.

  Helen flicked the flashlight upward. Big Ed was standing on the second floor, staring down at her.

  “You shouldn’t sneak up on people,” Helen said.

  “You shouldn’t be doing what you’re doing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Tampering with a crime scene,” Big Ed said. “I thought I told Teddy to tell you to stay put at the jail.”

  “You did. But I don’t work for you, Sheriff.”

  “No. But I will put in my report that I caught you here fussing with the body.”

  Helen kept her cool. “Mr. Patterson needs to be looked at by a doctor. As soon as possible.”

  “Well, I needed to deal with things here first.”

  Big Ed came around the bannister. He was carrying the second halogen lantern, which he now switched on, and a cloth-wrapped bundle.

  Helen switched off the flashlight she’d borrowed from Teddy and put it in her pocket. “Why are you skulking up there in the dark?”

  He motioned her down the stairs. She turned and descended. He followed.

  “I was with Alice when I heard a noise. So I turned the light off and came out real quiet. Two deaths in one night. Makes a man cautious. Hold on!”

  Big Ed stopped two-thirds of the way down the stairs, sat on a step, set the lantern and bundle down. He took a knife from a sheath on his belt, folded the blade out.

  “This is one of his, I assume?” He touched a splintered hole in a stair step with the tip of the knife. “How many shots he fire?”

  “I don’t know. Two, I think.”

  “And you? How many?”

  “Just one.”

  Big Ed folded up the knife and slid it back into its sheath. He removed a pen from his pocket and circled the bullet holes. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I came in here to grab some things Frank and Mike need to repair the transformer.” Helen elected to omit the part about picking the door lock.

  “And who asked you to tell Frank and Mike to look at the transformer?”

  “No one.”

  “You were supposed to stay at the jail.”

  “I had a crazy idea it might be nice to have some fricking lights!”

  Big Ed sighed. “That your bag down there on the floor?” He pointed to the paper bag at the foot of the stairs.

  “Yes.”

/>   “Okay. Continue.”

  “I heard a sound upstairs. Like someone in pain. I went to the second floor. It was coming from the bathroom. I opened the door, saw Mr. Patterson. When I went in to help him … he popped out from the corner.” She nodded at Lee. “Carrying this enormous horse gun. We fought. Both of us lost our guns. I ran out here. He must have thrown something at the back of my head.” She touched the bandage. “I fell down the stairs. He had my Glock, shot at me. I shot at him.”

  “With what? That .45 you dropped on the jail house porch?”

  “Yes.”

  Big Ed got to his feet, lifted the lantern and bundle. “Well, looks like you were the better marksman. Good work.”

  Helen nodded. It didn’t feel right, being congratulated for killing a person.

  Big Ed said something, but she couldn’t catch the words. Her eyesight dimmed, shrank to a pinhole. She felt herself falling.

  Next thing she knew, she was sitting at one of the restaurant tables, head down on her forearms.

  “What happened?”

  “You passed out.”

  “God. Sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry for. You took a wallop to the head. Surprised you’re able to stand at all.”

  Big Ed’s lantern was resting on the counter, along with the cloth-wrapped bundle. He bustled around the kitchen area. After a moment, he came out carrying two mugs, set one in front of Helen.

  “Drink.”

  She lifted the mug, sniffed. Coffee. She swallowed a mouthful.

  “Christ on a coat hanger. That’s good.”

  Big Ed smiled his crooked smile.

  “It’s just instant, is all. With no electricity, all I could do was boil a pot of water.”

  “Well, I don’t think I’ve ever tasted better.” Helen sipped, grateful for the warmth. “Frank and Mike said the transformer was sabotaged. The bushing was smashed. On purpose.”

  “No doubt by … ” Big Ed jerked his chin toward the vestibule.

  “Lee Larimer.”

  “Guess you were right, Marshal. About him and Rita. I suppose I owe you an apology.”

  Helen was touched. And he was right, he did owe her an apology. But she didn’t want to rub it in.