Outrider

by Steven John

  “Spear thrower.”

  “What?” Dreg asked too loudly.

  “It’s a spear throwing stick. You rest the back of the spear in this notch,” Scofield reached out and took the piece from Dreg, pointing to the divot cut near its thicker end, “and hold it like this.” Scofield mimed resting a spear against his forearm, then whipped the thrower forward.

  “It adds range and accuracy to your throw.”

  “Amazing,” Dreg chuckled, taking the spear thrower back from Scofield and shaking his head. “I’ve had this damn thing for a decade—never knew. My God, can you imagine a time so primitive! So savage!”

  “It’s simple, sure. I’ll give you that. But if I had one and you didn’t, I’d be the man that made it home that night.”

  14

  Timothy Hale trembled in the cold night air. He was standing in the middle of the sidewalk outside his apartment building, dripping wet. The rain had grown heavier again in the last half hour, the entirety of which Hale had spent wandering around a few city blocks near his home. His tie was ruined; his loafers were overflowing. The golden lapel pin that marked him as a man of clout dug into the flesh of his left hand. He gripped the little chevron so tightly his palm was riddled with puncture wounds.

  Hale was angry, terrified, and very much alone. A crippling undercurrent of sadness swirled beneath more tangible emotions: rage at Dreg for so quickly casting him aside after his years of service; abject terror as Hale realized he had nothing to fall back on—no backup plan for his life. The sorrow came from finally confronting the long suppressed reality that Hale had no one to turn to. There was no shoulder on which to lean; no smile from which to draw comfort. He had no real friends, no family with whom he’d spoken in years. He had no one, and now, quite possibly, he had nothing. What the fuck was I thinking? Who the fuck do I think I am!

  It had yet to dawn on him that, earlier, as he rode the elevator down after leaving The Mayor’s office, it had stopped once, allowing several bureaucrats to board. The golden chevron—the executive pin he’d worn so proudly for so long—had been deactivated. When not lost in abject self-pity, he kept returning to the horrifying knowledge that The Mayor said he had known of the drain for some time. What else did he know? That I went snooping around his office and computer? That I’m a fucking rat playing hero? A fucking manchild fool?

  The wind picked up and the rain began to assail Timothy. It was not enough to drench him; now the raindrops attacked, coming sideways down the street, seeking his face, his eyes. Cold and miserable though he was, somehow the thought of entering his home only brought more weight down upon Hale. The matching couches, the brushed steel appliances, and the faux-Tiffany lampshades . . . a store-bought life—nothing more. That’s what I have. That’s what I am goddammit. Fucking store-bought forty years.

  Strayer had called him seven times in the past two hours. Hale had turned his phone off after the last call. Why won’t he just leave a fucking message? Timothy turned toward the brightly lit alcove of his building, determined to finally get on with things and go home. A few glasses of wine, a hot shower and then, with any luck, dreamless sleep. He could explain himself in the morning. With the right mix of contrition and deceit, no doubt he could talk his way back into Dreg’s good graces. The Mayor needed him, after all. Perhaps the few hours he’d spend without his right hand man would prove how much, in fact. Perhaps tomorrow would be handshakes and “Hale, fellow, well met.” The secretary general smiled at his pun. Logically, the worst that could happen would be a stiff rebuke and a period of reconciliation. In the face of the impending crisis, surely he could make his value clear.

  The bright glow of the lobby, so menacing from the rain-slicked streets, was warm and comforting as Timothy finally entered the building. He shivered violently as his wet suit clung to him in the temperate, dry air. Hale stripped off his suit jacket and tie as he rode the elevator up to his floor.

  By the time he opened his door, Timothy was almost entirely relaxed. He had been deluding himself—panicking for no reason. He stopped just across the threshold of his home and stripped to his sopping briefs. Hale threw his wrinkled tie into a trash can in the kitchen, then draped his wet suit over the laundry basket in the closet. He grabbed a thick, white robe and relished the feel of the heavy cotton cloth as he wrapped it around his body.

  Hale turned his phone back on as he walked into the kitchen. After briefly debating between opening a bottle of ’84 Cabernet and finishing the Chardonnay in the fridge, Timothy smiled to himself: it was time. He threw open the cupboard above the sink and pulled out a thirty-five year old bottle of cognac. He’d received it as a gift the day he was appointed Executive Secretary General to the Office of The Mayor of New Las Vegas. Optimism tinged with resignation for what the morning would bring convinced Hale that this was the exact moment to crack open the prized bottle.

  It was not until Hale was savoring the first sweet sip of the liquor that he realized he had left all of the lights on in his apartment that day. Swirling the snifter below his nose, Timothy admonished himself silently. Though his electricity was free, he felt it a civic duty to conserve when convenient. Certainly no time to be wasting power, man.

  He keyed off the lights in the kitchen and walked through the dining room toward the panel that controlled the lamps in that room and in his den.

  “Leave them on, if you would.”

  Hale stopped dead in his tracks. His knees buckled and a few drops of urine leaked out into his underwear. He turned slowly from the wall panel to look into the living room.

  There on his couch sat an elderly woman dressed in a fine tan skirt suit. Her long white hair was coiffured around ruddy cheeks and a bright smile that deepened the wrinkles lining her face. She wore tortoiseshell glasses. A blue silk handkerchief peeked out of her breast pocket.

  “I apologize for startling you, Mr. Hale. I thought it fitting to let you get comfortable in your own home before engaging you.”

  Timothy shrank back a step, gripping the molding around the doorway for support. He was utterly shocked, his mind blank. He raised the glass of cognac as if to take a sip, freezing with the snifter inches from his face. A long moment passed. The old woman looked away, inclining her head to one side and gently raising a hand as if to say: “take your time.”

  Slowly Hale’s mind began to work again. His eyes darted about the room. There was no one else there. And nothing seemed amiss. Then he spotted it. Behind the couch stood an IV tower. Timothy’s eyes traced along a slender tube suspended below a fluid-filled sack. It ran down the back of the woman’s blazer. Hale looked again at her smiling face, gawking as if just now seeing the woman for the first time. Then it clicked . . . the lobby all those times . . . the incident outside the elevator . . . the . . . janitor?

  “My God . . . Wilbee?”

  “You know, Timothy, I’ve always hated my surname. More than seven decades on and I still hate that name. I’ve been thinking maybe I should change it. If I do, you know what I’ll change it to? I think I’ll change it to: ‘Is.’ Doesn’t that have a ring to it? ‘Candice Is.’ I love it.”

  “What are you doing in my home, Wilbee?”

  “See, it just sounds all wrong . . . just sounds so desperate. I really think ‘Is’ suits me better. Suits things better. Now, listen well Mr. Hale—I’m going to afford you a bit of respect even though you never saw fit to do the same. Go and change. Put on some warm, comfortable clothing, and if I were you I’d set aside that liquor and take a good long drink of water. Please be efficient. We’re on a schedule.”

  Hale hurled the snifter against the wall. The glass shattered, splashing liquor across the Maplewood floor. “We’re on your schedule, are we old lady? We’ll see about that!”

  Hale had not taken two steps toward Candice Wilbee before another voice came from behind him, this one unmistakably male.

  “Yes, we will.” Vice-like hands gripped Hale’s shoulders. He was spun about and came face to face with a giant of
a man. Hale scarcely had time to see dark whiskers on a wide chin as a fist closed in and then his world was all flashes of reds and yellows and dull pain and the floor rushing up toward him and then black.

  C. J. Haskell had been riding hard for over an hour when he spotted Tripp Hernandez, the one outrider who’d missed Round Up. Tripp had a reputation for both kindness and drunkenness. With some two decades of experience under his belt, he often helped mentor the newer riders, showing them the tricks and traps of life in the sunfield. When drunk, he was always smiling that lop-sided, yellow-toothed grin. While certainly no philosopher, Tripp had a way of reading things—both people and situations. His gut instincts had saved him many times. But not this time.

  It would later bother C. J. Haskell that his first thought upon seeing Tripp was not filled with sadness or even anger, but instead consisted of rational confusion: How the hell did they get him up there? Haskell reined his horse to a stop and peered up through the fog and drizzle.

  Hernandez hung dozens of feet above his head, dangling from a noose strung below a QV array. His soaking body swayed gently in the breeze. Haskell shielded his eyes from the raindrops dancing in the wind and set his jaw, staring at his dead comrade for a long time. It seemed like a goddamn shame and insult to leave a good man just hanging up there, but C. J. knew there was no time to pause now. Trying to shoot down the rope would telegraph his position to anyone in the area. And furthermore, he knew that Tripp could have been trussed up as part of a trap; a lure. It was entirely possible that the three minutes Haskell had spent sitting still were three minutes too long.

  His blood growing hot with anger, C. J. spurred his colt back up to a canter and continued west. It was true night now, though through the storm the only perceptible change was a darker gray than the slate color the sky had borne all day. Far ahead, toward what would have been the horizon, a few darker patches of sky hinted at a break in the weather. The rain, steadily drumming all day, was at least falling in smaller droplets. If the storm were lifting, though, it was unlikely to break up anytime soon. It was going to be a long, cold night.

  Haskell wrapped the reins around his left hand and gripped the collar of his long duster shut with his right. His boots were soaked through and his toes numb. Before long, his mind joined them. No thoughts of Tripp Hernandez. No thoughts of what the night may bring. Shoot and ride. If given the opportunity, shoot and then ride.

  Scofield had been the only passenger in his pod for the last three stops. Only two other passengers were on the four-car train when it eased to a silent halt at the end of the line. Scofield stepped out onto the cement platform of the Outpost station. It was shortly before midnight. The rain had stopped but the air was still thick. Within seconds his exposed flesh was cold and damp. He pushed his hat down low on his brow and readjusted the satchel slung across his chest. Taking a few steps out of the pool of halogen light cast by the station lamps, Scofield pulled his holster and pistol from the bag and returned them to their proper positions.

  He took in a long, slow breath and let it out as a sigh. Despite any potential peril ahead, it was a great relief to be out of New Las Vegas. The city always had an oppressive effect on Scofield; this time the usual discomfort had grown to a profoundly crushing level. His breaths were coming short and his heart had been pounding by the time he left Mayor Dreg’s office and boarded the commuter line.

  Scofield slid his hands into his jacket’s deep pockets and began to walk south, his pace as fast as he could muster without breaking into a jog. The Outpost was oddly quiet, muted both by the heavy air and as if by some sense of looming dread. Surely it was all in his mind, but as Scofield crossed the dark threshold between the lights of the pod station and the few lamps still glowing on the Outpost’s buildings, he began to feel as if his world was coming unhinged. His mind raced. Familiar though this place was, every shadow, every alley or doorway, concealed a threat. The few muffled sounds that made their way through the dampened night brought fear rather than their usual comfort. The thought of a night in his lonely shack—normally a haven—made the outrider shudder.

  Of the several taverns that catered to the outriders, Scofield knew the first one to check. Matteson’s Place. Matteson, the middle aged, craggy-faced proprietor didn’t even own the unnamed bar, but he’d worked the counter for some thirty-five years and never seemed to sleep. Ten a.m. or hours past midnight he was there, wheezing under his breath and serving the boys whiskey. It was Matteson’s Place just as sure as if he’d built it brick by brick.

  Sure enough, Boss Hutton was at the bar. Ryan Cannell was beside him, both men hunched over glasses of whiskey. The two old men were talking quietly, then Hutton’s shoulders blades poked up through his flannel shirt, rising and falling rapidly as though he were either laughing or sobbing. A few other riders sat at tables, chins resting on fists. They looked up then back down as Scofield walked slowly across the low lit room and eased himself onto a stool next to The Boss. Just as Scofield sat down, Cannell rose. He pushed his half-full highball of bourbon across the bar and muttered: “Good evening and goodnight,” then walked away without so much as looking up. Scofield watched him walk away, then turned to look at Hutton.

  “How we doin’?”

  “Hey, Scof.” The Boss glanced over then turned his eyes back to his glass of liquor. The old man shook his head slowly from side to side and waved his hand in the air without looking up. “Round for us both.”

  Though Hutton had barely spoken above a muttered whisper, Matteson was there within seconds, placing a fresh glass before Scofield and pouring a generous dose of whiskey for both outriders. Scofield took a hearty swallow of bourbon and unbuttoned his jacket and vest. He placed his hat on the bar and fished a pouch of tobacco from his satchel. A thousand questions raced through his mind, but Scofield read Hutton’s mood and leaned back, slowly rolling a cigarette and letting the moment linger.

  Both men sipped their whiskey. Occasional bouts of laughter and cursing pierced the smoky air. Boss Hutton pulled off his hat and lowered his head, eyes shut tight, and ran a hand through his gray hair.

  “They don’t know yet?” Scofield asked finally.

  “They know some. Not much.” He put his hat back on, eyes still closed.

  Scofield took in a breath to say more but looking askance at Hutton decided to wait a little while longer before getting down to business. Just one more minute waiting wouldn’t hurt. Scofield sat up on the stool, feeling the hard oakwood beneath his legs. He hooked his bootheels over the brass rod fastened to the bar. Matteson was pouring himself a glass of gin, trying to be subtle by leaning near the cash register. In the hazy, smoke-stained mirror Scofield watched his compatriots drink and joke and smoke.

  Finally Hutton raised his head again. “I sent Greg White out first. He went east. Sent him with extra chow for a long ride. I asked him to check on your leech. He called in from the line box out near the depot. Gone. Lock was shot through from the outside.”

  “Fuck,” Scofield muttered. “Guess he wasn’t just some lone leech, then.” Scofield cursed again under his breath and took a long pull of bourbon. “Fuckin’ hell—I should have brought him in then and there.”

  “Weren’t no way for you t’known. No worries ‘bout it. Worry about—shit, Scof, how could you have known about that shit?” Hutton downed his glass and slammed it angrily on the bar three times. Matteson set down the ashtray he’d been wiping clean and hurried over, filling Hutton’s glass and leaving the bottle. The Boss took a few small, quick sips of whisky, slurping the amber liquid sloppily, before a coughing fit took him. He hacked and sputtered, then drew in a long, ragged breath. Wiping a sleeve across his mouth, he asked “You got a cigarette, Scofield?”

  “Sure.” Scofield dug out his pack of store-bought smokes and offered it to Hutton. The Boss fumbled around with the pack for a few seconds before managing to get a cigarette out and between his lips. He leaned toward Scofield and the outrider lit the smoke for him.

  “C
. J. Haskell checked in, too. He was out west. He uh . . .” Hutton’s mouth twisted into a sneer. He took another sip of liquor, slowly, deliberately tilting the glass against his lips. “C. J. checked in too.”

  “Hut, listen, I get the gravity and the pressure and the what-the-fuck of it all, but I’d be lax or remiss or whatever if I didn’t say it . . . maybe this ain’t the best time for you to be drunk?”

  Again Boss Hutton pulled off his gray, wide-brimmed Stetson, dropping it on the stool beside him. He sat up, steadying himself with one hand against the bar. His other hand was wrapped so tightly around his glass the knuckles were white.

  “Tripp’s dead.”

  “What?” Scofield gasped.

  “Dead. Hung. They fuckin’ hung him.”

  Scofield took in a breath to speak but it came out as a dry rasp.

  Tripp Hernandez was dead. Crooked-toothed, lovable, stumbling, smiling Tripp. Scofield caught his own eyes in the mirror. He could picture Tripp there grinning beside him as he had so many times for so many years. As he had mere nights ago. Turning to his right, Scofield nodded to the empty stool beside him—just the slightest nod; one that no one in the room could have perceived—and raised his glass off the bar. After a long pause he drained the bourbon in one gulp. When Matteson walked over and reached for the bottle, Scofield shook his head, whispering “Just water.”

  Scofield muttered his thanks as Matteson set a glass of tap water down before him. He glanced over at Hutton. The Boss was smiling and looking down at his hands. They were resting on the bar, palms up with the fingers curled halfway into fists. Hutton’s mouth was moving slowly. His eyes were distant. Almost falling into a trance, Scofield turned farther toward Hutton. He sat staring right at the old man’s face.

  Finally Hutton snapped out of his reverie and folded his hands together in his lap. Eyes still staring a thousand yards, he asked quietly, “So what did the good Mayor Dreg have to say?”