“Can I trust you?” This is a funny thing to ask someone. If they say no, that they’re a liar, you can’t trust them—after all, they’re a liar.
“This morning, once the sun’s out, I’ll show you everything I got.”
“You’re a strange one, Damien Mitchell.” Kristine glides off the table and grabs her discarded clothing before walking from the room.
Then, quick as anything, she darts over and jabs me with a needle, right in my bullet wound. I yelp a little, like when you step on an animal’s tail. Then I lean back and slump in my seat, eyes closed. Kristine doesn’t have my number. Maybe she won’t call. My phone buzzes a couple minutes later. The morning.
Of course she has my number. She’s the videographer. There’s way too much going on for me to keep track of it all. She must have found it at Candice’s—the information about the heist, put it all together, looked it up. Maybe Mitch and his big mouth told her whore mother about the heist. Bastard, despite his size, couldn’t hold his liquor better than a bottomless bucket.
So Kristine ransacked the place. Chick was certifiable. Family was what this was all about—her mom dying. Wherever Candy had shipped little Kristine off to, all those years ago, well, it’d done wonders. Now the little kid would help the old workhorse get some justice.
Feds. What assholes. I don’t want to think about Kristine and her ultimatums right now. It’ll be wondrous if I even survive the next couple days. Best case scenario, I’ll end up in jail—or just get shipped back to the Ice Age. I heard they did that to a guy, once.
That has to suck. I wonder if it’s worse than being stuck in Riverton for as long as I have. Doubtful.
“Hey buddy, this look like a retirement community? Paying customers only,” a bouncer says, looming a little closer than I’d like in a room this small. His thick arms are crossed, biceps threatening to burst out of his too tight shirt.
I wipe the sleep from my eyes and check the time. Damnit; that shot must have gotten me good.
“Look, I’ve had a hell of a night, so just give me a minute here.”
“This is a business, not a goddamn daycare center.”
“Yeah, I get that,” I say as I edge past him out into the now buzzing main room.
“You getting smart?” He pushes me from behind.
“No sir.”
“That’s not what I was hearing. You were giving me some—”
I smack him clear across the mouth with the gun. And then I do it again, and again, until his face is almost unrecognizable and his teeth are mingling with the bar peanuts on the rug.
It’s a rude interruption to the festivities; I glance around at the subpar morning talent onstage, feel everyone’s gaze lock on to me. I keep walking, and the scene unpauses, right back to the same sad story that will play out here every day until eternity.
The bright light hurts my head. Out on the road, I’m accompanied by nothing but the yammer of talk radio and the hum of the truck’s engine as I roll back to the Lucky Lady.
My shoulder doesn’t hurt once. I check it, and the bullet hole is gone. Hell of a future to look forward to.
12
Visitors
The Lucky Lady’s door is splintered on the floor, and everything inside has been overturned. Upstairs, I find my room in a similar state of disarray. And the bed’s wet. Piss. Great.
Someone’s been here, and I think it was the Syndicate’s Erasers. Don’t ask me how they empty the old tank in their goddamn jousting gear, but those sick bastards are the prime suspects for something like this.
The safe.
I hurtle down the stairs, over the broken bottles strewn on the ground, skidding to a halt behind the counter. The safe’s banged up—a crowbar, maybe, or some other blunt metal object—but still looks secure. I dial it open and hold my breath. Everything glitters inside.
I pull one of the bricks out and hold it to my chest like a small child. It’s amazing how attached you get to stuff you didn’t want to steal in the first place. But now, after the price has been paid, it seems like this makes up for it, if only a bit. And besides, the book’s going to save my ass: I need to deliver it to Kristine.
Calling her might not be a bad idea, but hell, she might be the one who broke in—as weak a chance as that is. And the cops, well, I can’t give them a ring. Henderson is a bastard, and I’m sitting on six figures in stolen goods, plus some of his very valuable merchandise.
There’s a nice strongbox in the cab of my pickup, so I transfer the loot from the safe and head back upstairs. All I can do is sit against the cold metal frame at the foot of the bed, smoke a cigarette and hope I’m tired enough that sleep will take me, imperfect as I am.
The exoskeleton of ash grows as I wait, everything still and silent. A smirk creases my face as I reflect on how quick it all can change. Six, seven years ago—in regular time, not my screwed up looping reality—there’s a solution, an easy fix to all my problems. No one said anything about it making new ones.
And so you take a shortcut down a dark alley and never reach the other side. Invisible in the darkness, no one comes to help you while everyone’s coming to get you.
I hear the rumble of a large rig pull up. Half past ten; must be Thursday, which means a liquor delivery. I glance at my watch; it’ll all be over at Friday, right before midnight.
The delivery guy’s always nice, but I don’t think I can take that right now. I close my eyes, but the knocking doesn’t end. He knows it can take a moment for me to shake off a hangover. A bar owner who enjoys his drink is like a sex addict working at a porno store. Positive outcomes are rarer than unicorns.
I drag myself down the stairs to open up.
“Damien,” Danny says, “it looks like a tornado hit The Lady.”
“Yeah, a little bit of a rough night, I guess.”
“Man, I sure missed whatever was going on here. Must be dying for a restock.” He pops the truck’s back. “Got some new microbrews in this week, all the way from Dallas. Cost me a goddamn fortune to get them here without skunking them, but I think these are the ones.” He places the case in front of me with a grunt, then goes back for more. “On the house. And your regular order, of course.”
I sign the invoice, running up a tab I won’t pay.
“Danny,” I say, as I hand him back the slip, “I think this is the last one.”
“This place is just getting started, man. Hang in there, buddy. She’s a real gem.”
“Afraid not.”
“Well, you’ll have to do a little send-off for her.” He climbs into the cab. “Can’t let good booze go to waste.” Whatever else he says is drowned out by the roar of the engine and groan of the wheels. And then he drives away, back to a town not far from here, just far enough to be a thousand miles away.
I pick up the two wooden cases, straining under the weight, and put them on the bar. I crack open one of these fancy beers and flip over an overturned stool. Sipping it, I think I know why it was free.
There’s little to do except wait for Kristine. She’s already late, but that woman doesn’t adhere to any plans, far as I can fathom. So I pick up the pieces and wipe everything down, call the generator guy and, by early afternoon, The Lady is back in the semblance of order, except for the side dining room.
I head into the private area, brush back the velvet curtain separating it from the main drinking lounge, and that’s when I see it.
A body—Davey’s, to be precise. He was tortured, that much is clear, and it looks like just about every pint of his blood is now a permanent part of my hardwood. One of those big metal Erasers ran him through with a saber, pinned him to the ground with it like a note.
I’m being set up. Panic sets in, and I begin to race around, unsure what to do next. I check the time. It’s three in the afternoon. Whoever did this is taking it slow.
I still haven’
t heard nothing from the crazy bitch, but it’s time to jet. She didn’t do this; my initial suspicions were confirmed, that it was the Syndicate. Must’ve been Henderson’s orders. And her threats, they pale in comparison to whatever they have planned for me.
Too late. I hear a window break. Someone’s back for more. I pull the gun from my waistband and edge towards the door. Nothing. There’s a little ping and a rattle, which is when I see a metal canister in the middle of the room start spewing out a hazy mixture. I’m engulfed in gas and nano-mites before I have a chance to retrace my steps. I’m curled up on the floor, vomiting from the burn, little machine ants stinging and shocking me.
Technology.
“Get down, get down,” voices yell, and I want to scream, I am down you assholes, but my throat is too swollen to respond. Metal-toed boots stomp by my head. I can feel cold cuffs slide over my wrists and click shut.
“You have the right to an attorney you piece of shit,” someone says, words echoing from behind his mask, “I’ve been waiting for this.” He drags me up by the shirt. “We got a warrant to search your safe, asshole.”
A gloved hand shoves a wad of paper towards me. Could be a delivery menu or the deed to the goddamn moon; I still can’t see. “You’d best start talking and give me the combo.”
I can’t answer him, so I moan in response.
“Christ, Richards,” another voice says, “the poor bastard doesn’t have a mask. Take him outside.”
“It’s what the prick deserves,” Richards says, but he takes me outdoors all the same. Light makes my eyes hurt even worse and tears stream from beneath the closed lids. A moment or two passes; seems like an eternity. “The combination, now. If you’re feeling up to it.” That last bit is more of a threat.
“49 - 3 - 25 - 6,” I say, and then he drops me on the ground and heads back inside. He returns, grabbing my arm as he begins talking with another officer.
“We got the son of a bitch, Rod, but he hid it.”
“This ain’t him, dumbass.” I recognize this voice. Sheriff Henderson. He seems nonplussed about the body in my bar.
“It’s Mitchell.”
“I swear, Richards, sometimes I think you’re half retard.”
“But you said Mitchell would be in the bar.”
“You got a Mitchell all right—the one who spends the whole day with his prick in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other.” I’m not sure if I like his tone, but that isn’t too far off the truth.
A tense pause hovers in the air, thick enough to slice through, like cream from milk. I dry heave. Richards groans.
“You’re not Isaac Mitchell?”
“No,” I manage to rasp out, “Damien.”
“What’s that?”
“…Damien.” The inside of my mouth feels like it’s been through a belt sander.
“He says his name’s Damien,” he calls to the rest of the gang—how many, I can’t tell, but it sure seems like they brought in the whole goddamn cavalry.
“Good job, Richards. Fucking ace detective work. My God, I went to school with this bastard you got drooling on himself. He’s afraid of his own damn shadow, too scared to even drive by the bank. He wouldn’t have waxed Candice. Wouldn’t have even screwed her.”
Henderson’s pinning the murder on Isaac. Not a bad plan; the proverbial two birds come to mind. Isaac’s dicking with the Syndicate; they don’t seem to know that I am, yet.
“So,” and Richards relaxes his grip on my arm, “what are we going to do with him?”
“We’ll sure look like a bunch of peckerwoods if we let him go now, don’t you think? Bring him along.”
“But there’s no evidence—”
“There’s plenty of evidence, Richards. There’s a goddamn dead officer in there, for one, and even if the son of a bitch who called said it was Isaac, this little shit was found standing knee deep in blood.”
“But sir, the forensics at Candice’s—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Henderson says, waving his hand like he gives zero shits, “but maybe our friend knows something about the bank. Take him away.”
“You just said he’s scared of his own shadow.”
Wrong move. Henderson’s eyes burn, even behind the stereotypical reflective aviators.
“Hell, Richards, maybe he knows something about this fireworks show or maybe he don’t know his damn johnson from a stick of dynamite. Just do it, would you?”
“You heard the man,” Richards says, his deep voice no longer dripping contempt, “we’re taking you in for questioning.” He puts me in the back of a car, pushes my head down so it doesn’t bang against the frame. Black leather’s a little warm in the sun. Either Riverton PD had some sadistic assholes buying their cars, or whoever ordered these cruisers didn’t think that detail through.
We drive off, my wrists chafing in the tight cuffs.
13
Brothers
Kristine seemed pretty damn sure that it was Henderson who killed Candice. But I could hear the cops up front talking about how they had my brother dead to rights: fingerprints, a note, hell, even DNA—and not the type of DNA you’d expect.
Blood, from a struggle. He’d beaten her half to death, right before slicing her open. Note said something about the Rapture. It could have been a set-up, but deep down, I think I knew. How we parted ways with Mitch and Lenny told me that much.
“Hey, Mitchell,” Richards says after bringing the car to a halt, “I’m sorry about this, but I think it’s just protocol. You seem like a nice guy and all, or at least the decent sort.”
If I do, then I’m a better damn actor than I thought. I should play more poker. That’s all I can think as I walk into the police station, pretty damn sure that I won’t set foot outside it for a long, long time.
14
A Trip Downtown
“We do apologize about the excessive force back there, Mr. Mitchell,” Henderson says, “your brother’s caused quite a stir, which I’m sure you know isn’t too unusual. Isaac’s done a hell of a thing this time, though, so you can see how we made an honest mistake in the name of justice.” I tune out and stare at the filthy black mustache adorning his upper lip, like whiskers on a drowned rat. “…and he stole some things people need back and we, as law enforcement, are obliged to find.” I sip from the cup of water on the table, which feels like forcing wood glue into my stomach. “Mr. Mitchell? You think you’d be able to help us out?”
“No, Rod, I don’t think I’d be of much help here.” My voice is rough, but I can, to my surprise, speak louder than a squeak.
“No one calls me that around here.”
“Richards did.”
“Richards is an insubordinate piece of shit.” Henderson mops his forehead and sits down at the table.
“Well, that don’t change what I don’t know.”
“Hell of an attitude on you.” He makes a gesture towards the camera in the corner, and the red light flips off. “You should look into that.”
“Haven’t been sleeping too good.”
“Neither have Mitch Jacoby and Leonard Harris. We found them roasted blacker than a Thanksgiving turkey inside that vault.”
“There a connection to me you getting at?” I gulp down the last droplets of water.
“Look, asshole,” Rod says, leaning over the table, moustache about tickling my face, “I don’t think you’re dumb enough to jerk around the powers that be. I don’t think you’re smart enough to even wipe your ass, let alone blow that vault into rubble. I don’t think—”
“If you don’t think,” I say, forcing the words through my dry throat, “that I’m involved, then why am I here?” I give him my best, meanest stare. It’s pretty good, even though I’m sweating bullets.
“Been hearing a lot about you these days, Mitchell.”
“Yeah?” I look deep into his e
yes, and he’s forced to turn away.
“Causing trouble at the El Dorado. Foreclosing on your little property. Brother’s going to hell.”
“What’s all that mean?”
“I’m saying that the circumstances, they suggest you could be involved.”
“For a second there, I thought you were going to let me back into the Syndicate.”
“Screw you,” he screams, banging a hairy hand on the table, “you asshole, you goddamn—”
“You kiss your children with that mouth?” Not that I have room for talking, but I don’t got kids. “The Syndicate put that body there. Hell, you might’ve dragged poor Davey in there.”
“Just keep going, Mitchell. Just keep it going. You’ll end up like him.”
“That your professional assessment?”
He leers forward, close enough that I can feel his hot breath. “Well my professional assessing skills are telling me that Isaac and his little friends don’t play Butch and Sundance on their own.” Henderson grins, like he knows something I don’t. “And we didn’t find none of the stuff they stole.” I got nothing to say, and the silence grows thick enough to suffocate us both, almost worse than the shroud of tear gas. Henderson kicks his chair away, the metal legs screeching against the floor. “Just tell me where that goddamn son of a bitch is.”
“I—”
“Bullshit!” He slams the chair against the wall. “You know where that bastard is hiding, along with my gold.”
“Your gold?” I know it’s his gold, and he can see that I know where it is, from the little smirk I have on my lips.
“The citizens’ gold, which makes it my gold.” I don’t know why he bothers lying; the camera’s off.
“I’m not following that, Rod.”
“Don’t you get all cute with me now.”
“I haven’t seen Isaac since yesterday.”
“That’s a goddamn lie and we both—”
“Prove it. Or maybe I tell everyone a little story. One about who our buddy Davey is, and what we both know about him. I even got a little movie I can show them. And maybe, just maybe, someone who looks like him in this town. I think he was a cop. Officer Monk, maybe?” This freezes him in his place. He opens the door.
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